Twist Of The Knife
by Kristine Thorne
Summary: This is the sequel to till Death do Us Part. It contains characters from Bad girls, Judge John Deed, Holby City, Silent Witness, Patricia Cornwell's novels and Wire In The Blood. Contains scenes of lesbian and heterosexual activity. WIP!
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: All characters either belong to Shed Productions, The BBc, or patricia Cornwell. 

A/N: This is the sequel to till Death Do us part. This is another joint effort between myself and Richard. if you do read this story, a review would always be appreciated. Part one this time is Richard's. 

Part One

That broad time band exists on a sunny, cheerful August morning so that those starting their routines could rub the cobwebs of sleep out of their eyes and busy themselves ready for another working day. For John, his briskness and heartiness was a long-standing trial for the less lively George and Jo. Helen sprang cheerfully out of bed while Nikki clung to the disappearing remnants of comforting sleep and the corner of her duvet. Ric had been long accustomed to gambling on his ability that 'he would feel all right in the morning' and would somehow be ready on time while Connie was ruthlessly organized, everything being neatly in its place. In so many households spreading across the widths of the London suburbs and further afield towards different and distant counties, the early morning cup of tea or coffee provided that mixture of comfort or energy boost. These were places in England where the loathsomely disruptive twenty four hour work culture and working shift system hadn't distorted the working life so that in that segment of time, a nation awoke to the early morning newspaper and that period of silence where people clung onto that moment of peace before the mad rush starts. Inevitably, purposeful activity took over and the morning queue for the bus stop formed up while elsewhere, the rubber tyres made contact with the hard tarmac to take those gleaming cars to their appointed destinations.

Such was a normal morning for Connie as she eagerly drove her silver grey Jaguar to her reserved car parking space at St Mary's hospital, just like any other day. In her smart suit and high heels, she clicked her way across the car park, with that faint smile of self-assurance and wearing her high position in the hierarchy of power as snugly as the clothes that she wore. She passed through the foyer and graciously received the customary deference that was her due. She could feel that aura of accustomed feeling greet her and eyes turn in her direction. It might have been the discreet shortness of her skirt but then again, power and sexuality were not too dissimilarly related.  
"I've been thinking, Connie. You were right to insist that I check my findings before going ahead with the operation." "Why Mr. Curtis. I'm glad that you've learnt to apologise for your mistakes. I trust that you can see that infinite care and preparation is essential to the task in hand"  
"I have learned my lessons well, Connie," He answered meekly.  
As Connie swept by leaving a faint aroma of perfume in her wake, she reflected with satisfaction that Will Curtis was surprisingly gracious to her. She had only recently had yet another stand up argument with him when, as usual, his pride had made him defend the indefensible. Perhaps he was maturing and losing that brattish adolescence that he normally hid behind his aristocratic shield.

She smiled with satisfaction as she passed on to be greeted by Ric.  
"A new week starts and so do new frontiers, Connie"  
"You sound extremely positive for a Monday morning," came her silky response.  
"Nothing to do with a big win coming up on the horses if that's what you're thinking of"  
"You mean you didn't win anything on the bookies"  
"I never even went there. That was the last thing on my mind"  
By the way that Ric looked directly into her eyes, Connie knew that Ric was telling the truth. He just felt good about himself. Connie smiled warmly at Ric in response and the corner of her eye caught the disapproving expression on Nick Jordan's face. He was the new consultant who was dying to return to the cardio thoracic specialism, which he had learnt several years before under Anton Meyer. There was bad blood between the two men, Nick's overweening ambition and pushy high risk strategies offending Ric's easy going nature and his sense of propriety. Connie had ended up being the unwilling mediator between the two of them.  
"So what have we got today that I can get my teeth into"  
"I suppose this is a closed shop?" queried Nick with a frown on his face. "Not at all, Nick. I am quite willing to spread my favours around to all that deserve it"  
"So where do I stand"  
"Just wait and see, Nick," teased Connie. She had had to develop her own tactics to deal with two competitive alpha males that was not in any conventional management handbook but it worked. It gave her an ego boost to be at the center of affairs at St. Mary's but sometimes, she found the tense relationships fairly wearing. It came of hospitals being such a locked in world where those in the caring profession worked long hours and would always be found doing so, from her long experience. However, that was the price of the power of her position.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Donna in full motor mouth mode gossiping with another nurse, the very polite and tolerant Mickie. She was sure that Donna was regaling her friend with lurid stories of the exploits of last night. Donna's head suddenly turned and she gave Connie a big smile.

Suddenly, a trolley was wheeled through at urgent speed with the message of 'severe abdominal pains, BP dropping fast' and Ric went off, stage right at a measured pace to deal with the matter and Donna had to stop her conversation mid sentence to rush after Ric. Mickie sighed tolerantly and went off to her ward where Owen ruled supreme. "My god, you get more dictatorial every day." Tricia argued to her rather humourless and iron willed daughter Chrissie who was matron. "The power and uniform is going to your head"  
"Isn't it just, Nurse Williams and I still want your duties on the roster done by four sharp." Came the implacable reply.  
"Where have I done wrong in bringing her up?" sighed Tricia under her breath out of earshot. "She's getting more like Hitler every day."

Connie turned towards her office and spent an hour buried in the hospital accounts and examining the cost projections for the next three months, which were at the least tolerable. Eventually, she switched off her computer, that powerful instrument that held sway over the working lives of a busy hospital and partnered Ric in a tricky replacement heart valve operation that demanded her close attention. "Excellent, I can leave you to the sewing up. A good morning's work"  
She immediately changed out of her gown and scrubbed up to continue on her rounds of the patients. The immense feel of her usefulness and self worth was something that she never became blasé about and the anxious questions from the patients was something that she devoted her personal care to give them heartfelt reassurance .She had to periodically stamp on immature registrars who saw and related to patients merely as animated potential ailments and material for operations. If she had achieved nothing else in her professional career, she gained satisfaction on that vital lesson being passed down to future generations of doctors.

She clearly remembered that it was lunchtime when Chrissie placed the large brown manilla envelope containing the X ray results for her attention. At the same time, Ric recognized the woman accompanying and lagging slightly behind the smart suited man who strode purposefully in their direction. They were noticeable for the way that , unlike most visitors, they didn't look vaguely around at the array of signs for different wards. A warning bell rang in Ric's mind that this was trouble in the form of DI Archer.  
"Which poor unsuspecting individual have you come to wrongly arrest now"  
"This time, we aren't making any mistakes," came the man's hard-edged Scottish accent. Young cocky upstart, Connie pegged him, as she prepared to do battle over whomever he had come to hassle. "We are looking for a Mrs. Beauchamp." DI Archer added by way of explanation.  
"You've found her. Can someone explain to me why I was not informed that a couple of police officers were wandering around my hospital?" Connie snapped, her gaze flicking round from Ric, to Chrissie and traveling on to Will and Nick. "I suppose that I will have to find out directly just who you have come to see and that someone can take you off my hands. I've got important calls to make"  
"They'll have to wait till later. It's you that we've come to see." DI Sullivan added in surly tones. "Me? If this is a joke, it's in very bad taste." "No joke, I assure you"  
"This isn't the first time I've been here. I remember when we finally slipped the handcuffs on one of your nurses, Kelly Yorke I seem to remember," DI Archer chipped in.  
"Yes, and you were after Kath Shaughnessy then and you got the wrong person then," muttered Ric just loud enough, glaring at the unwelcome intruders. It struck him that no one else was going to say anything so it was down to him to protest.  
"Can you please tell me what on earth this is all about or must you go on talking in riddles"  
"We're investigating the murder of a former patient, one Mrs. Angela Masters and you are in the frame for her murder. I am asking you to accompany us to the station to help us with our enquiries." DI Sullivan intoned in his best official tones.  
"Not on your life. I have absolutely nothing to do with all this." Hissed Connie, her face turning white with shock. The first stages of the nightmare to come were starting to seep into her consciousness. Despite her best efforts, this was not going away. She put down the envelope that she had been clutching onto the reception desk. Somehow, she felt that she needed her hands free to deal with this emergency.  
There was a faint twitch on DI Sullivan's lips. He had his share of prejudiced and articulate, strong willed women who had rubbed him up the wrong way, especially the kind that made him feel gauche and inferior. For once, this particular woman had blundered onto his patch where his rule of law held supreme.  
"Then, it will have to be the hard way." Very deliberately, he drew out a pair of handcuffs and snapped them over Connie's slim wrists. She suddenly felt pinioned and helpless. Her hands were the tools of her trade with which she skillfully handled all the delicate surgical tools with such knowledge and precision. She looked around at all those over whom she had held authority and the fact that they were looking on made her burn with utter humiliation. She was as equally afraid of pity and sympathy as she was of scorn and derision.  
"Are you coming willingly or must we use force, Mrs. Beauchamp?" said DI Sullivan in his hardest tone of voice. "If it takes my presence to sort out this matter at the police station, then I will have to go. Ric, will you take over my duties and appoint who you see fit as backup support." Connie's voice cracked with all her old authority. It crossed her mind that it might be the last time for a bit that she would get to exercise that authority. She strode away between the two police officers, her head held high and looking straight in front of her.

For once in a busy hospital wing, there was utter silence.  
"Those police officers must be off their heads. Connie is nothing if not professional " exclaimed Nick loudly.  
Ric smiled warmly at the man. He had never had any time for the man but, for once in his life, he had no personal agenda on the matter.  
"When Connie gets to the bottom of this one, they'll regret having set foot in St. Mary's." Ric replied with more confidence than he felt. This event had knocked the usual hospital routine clean off its axis and he was instantly aware of the gaping hole left by the absence of Connie's commanding presence.  
"Connie's no more a murderer than I am a Jehovah's Witness." Chipped in Donna brightly. Though she was as much shaken up as anyone, she tried to put on a bright face. Brief wan smiles accompanied her attempt at a joke. "It looks like you're in charge, Ric- at least until Connie gets back. In my opinion, the police really have been rather silly," put in Will, his eyes cast meekly down at his feet and his voice very muted and reticent. Ric stared sightlessly back at the man. "Who's going down to the police station to see how Connie is and see what help she needs. Someone has to"  
It took the very down to earth Tricia Williams to voice the obvious and stop the conversation going round and round in circles. The police officers sounded as mad as hatters but they had the power and Connie didn't. There was a murmur of consent.  
"We'll cover for you, Ric if you want." Diane offered anxiously. There was an instinct that, however hard Connie had driven them at times, she was one of theirs Ric nodded in assent. Up till then, his mind had felt half frozen over and it was this collective decision that started the mental circulation going. Mercifully, it was only then that the balloon went up and the usual run of emergencies and operations grabbed everyone's attention for awhile until he could grab some spare time and think about getting over to see how Connie was coping.

Connie had sat in the back seat of the police car. Her thoughts seesawed between violent rage and helpless fear but, at all costs, she couldn't show an inkling of her feelings to these police officers any more than she had ever shown in her life. Her defences were up and so were her hackles. She ignored any token efforts made at conversation and dare not look out of the window. She was mysteriously swept off her usual path into an unknown arena. It seemed like a dream of reality gone askew that she would never get to examine that X ray as she had done a thousand times before. When she was taken into the police station, she propped herself against the desk, visibly bored and angry while the interminable red tape was completed. Eventually, she was taken into a small bare interview room where a black box was perched on the side of the desk. At one moment, she had to fight down feelings of causeless panic and on the other hand, the sensation that this wasn't real and that she was still Connie Beauchamp, clinical lead at St. Mary's and she would be pointed back to the welcome security blanket of the many demands on her time and her skills.

She faced the two solemn faced police officers, one of whom clicked on the tape machine and DI Sullivan intoned the formula she had heard on police TV drama until her brain sharpened as she sensed him come to the point.

"I suppose you know why you're here, Mrs. Beauchamp"  
"I haven't the faintest idea." "I have here the death certificate of Mrs. Angela Masters. Can you tell me if you recognize it? For the benefit of the tape, I am handing Mrs. Beauchamp the death certificate of the deceased person. Can you tell me if this is your signature"  
"It is definitely my signature."

That was the opening exchange of an interview that Connie would remember for the rest of her life. It disturbed her that on her home ground, she could have wiped the floor with this man but this situation had robbed her of her accustomed confidence, verbal fluency and debating fire. It humiliated her that she was only working at half capacity and sounded much more vulnerable than she was accustomed to feeling. She recalled the patient from the number that had been through her hands and there was nothing untoward about the matter. She had signed off the death certificate just as she had done in the past with her usual care and detail. She couldn't understand how these rotweillers in human form were coming out with points that she hadn't got the foggiest idea about. She knew that she was innocent but it was quite another matter to refute the points that were being made. She felt wearier than she had felt at the end of a long shift and that black box was taking down every last syllable of this interrogation. All she could do was to deny and deny over again whatever she didn't know about and insist on what she could recall. She felt crippled by the fact that she hadn't got the case file to hand and that she was entirely dependent upon her memory. The whole nightmare went on and her throat became dry with talking. Eventually, DC Sullivan ground to a halt and folded his arms in front of him.

"Mrs. Constance Beauchamp, I am charging you with the murder of one Mrs. Angela Masters. I think that we have got quite enough to hold you on remand for tonight"  
Connie went white with shock. She suddenly felt very dishevelled and she sank back in her chair.  
"I must phone my colleague, Ric Griffin. He has to know what's going on"  
"Does he?" he sneered.  
"Even as your prisoner, I have my rights. I'm perfectly capable of finding out what they are from my lawyer when I get one"  
DI Sullivan shrugged his shoulders. These types were pushy and he questioned just how far he could face her out on this one when he was on dodgy grounds. "I need my mobile back at least for the time being or else I'll have to borrow your phone"  
Even in that moment of tension, Connie spotted the look of irritation and fatal hesitation that crossed the man's face. With a tiny sliver of satisfaction, Connie pushed the button giving her that tiny bit of control over her life and sighed with sheer relief when she heard Ric's voice in her ear.  
"Ric, it's Connie. I'm being charged with the murder of Angela Masters. I've just been cross-examined and they're holding me overnight. I need you to come down and sort things out at home and work until….until I can get back to work"  
Connie struggle to sound dispassionate and businesslike was like an arrow through Ric's heart. He felt so deeply for her in words that he could not measure and put together in order.  
"I'm just on my way over to see you. Give me half an hour and I'll be right there"  
"How are you going to get there, Ric"  
There was a faint pause before Ric answered. His will to be there has outstripped working out the means to do so. "I suppose I could take a taxi." "Listen. You go into my office and pick up the spare keys to my Jag but mind you don't scratch it"  
There had been a faint tremor in Connie's voice that deeply upset Ric. She wasn't the cool, superbly controlled strong woman that he was so used to. The faint tone of authority in her voice came close to doing her in.  
"You hang on in there, Connie"  
"I've got no choice," came that faint echo of her self-sufficiency.  
Ric made his way to the police station late in the afternoon and worked his way through the foreign lines of authority till he came to the bare room and that same young upstart riding shotgun throughout their meeting. One look at Connie's face made him instinctively reach out for her and they hugged and kissed each other without reservation. "Oh, very touching," that hated Scottish accent sneered. Both of them pointedly ignored the man. Ric had cooled down long enough to treat the situation with care and Ric had learned from when the police caught him at a party carrying dope in his pocket to never argue with the police from a position of disadvantage.  
"Ric, can you take my lovely Jag to your house and look after it until…I am back"  
The break in Connie's voice said all that Ric needed to know about how vulnerable she was feeling. He had learnt that Connie was normally the last person wanting much less than thanking anyone to fight her battles for him but it came natural to give her a bit of backup. There was so much that Ric wanted to say to Connie but they both felt constrained by the situation and the presence of DI Sullivan. All Ric could come up with were lighthearted trivialities designed to bolster her spirits. It would have relieved him to receive a dose of Connie's anger because that would have at least signified some measure of optimism.  
"Everyone is giving you their best wishes back on the ward." Ric finally uttered in what he thought was a totally lame inexpressive fashion.  
"I'm surprised considering how hard I've driven them over the years"  
There was an almost soulful expression on Connie's face. She had got the meaning behind his words and that was enough.

There had to come the time for Ric to go. He gave Connie a last hug of reassurance and she held onto him fiercely before they let go. He was still half looking at Connie as he went out of the door. The room felt very bare and empty to Connie after Ric left.

"I'll escort you to your cell now, Mrs. Beauchamp." It wasn't a suggestion but an order that she hadn't the power to countermand. It was that moment that it dawned on her that she ceased to possess control over her destiny. It was this lack of control that frightened her the most.  
"When I'm ready." Connie murmured evenly. The fact that she collected her things almost immediately showed her that even token gestures had their place.

She was led along narrow corridors until she faced the steel faced door, which was opened for her. The cell looked so much darker, barer and more inhuman than the bright luxury of her bedroom but she shut down that thought straightaway. She dared not think of anything more than what lay immediately before her. 


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Betaed by Jen. 

Part Two

Connie was bitterly angry as she was shown into the prison van outside the magistrate's court: angry that she was being manhandled in such a disrespectful manner, angry that she didn't seem to possess any control over what might happen to her next, and angry because there was no way that she should be here in the first place. Why was she here, she kept asking herself? What in god's name, or whoever really presided over this world, had given Archer and Sullivan the idea that she had killed that patient? She was a surgeon for fuck's sake; she didn't go around ending her patients' lives just after she had saved said lives in theatre. It just didn't make sense. 

She clung on to any hand hold she could find inside the prison van as it moved through the London traffic, wondering where they were taking her, and knowing without a doubt that she needed to find herself some help, and fast. Clever as she might be, not to mention articulate and one hundred percent argumentative, she couldn't fight this legal battle on her own, especially if she were incarcerated at Her Majesty's pleasure. She felt fairly disgusting as she clung on inside the van. Her clothes were crumpled, she'd only had chance to briefly wash her face, and had hardly been given time to apply anything like the usual make up she always wore. As for perfume, well, that was contained in a glass bottle and so had been taken away from her when the custody sergeant had gone through her handbag the night before. The police cell that she had been assigned to had been dark, smelly and had been thoroughly conducive to an entire night of wakefulness. Her eyes were gritty and her skin felt wrinkled and unwashed, not a state in which she wanted to be meeting several new people over the next few hours. 

The first thing that Karen Betts found on her arrival at work on that Tuesday morning, was a message on her mobile from Ric Griffin. "Karen, its Ric. Please could you give me a ring at the hospital as soon as you get into work. It's urgent." So, being the right-minded friend and citizen that she was, she called him back, wondering just what favour he was about to ask of her this time. 

"It's Connie," Ric told her when he received her call, and proceeded to explain what position Connie Beauchamp was now in. "The thing is," Ric continued when Karen had taken in what he was telling her, "she's been remanded in custody, and I think she's on her way to Larkhall, at least that's what I managed to drag out of DI Archer last night." "Okay," Karen replied slowly, her brain instantly going into action, trying to work out just what problems might be caused by such a woman as Connie Beauchamp being imprisoned under such a roof as hers. "What is it that you want me to do for her?" Karen asked, knowing that there was more behind his phone call than his simply informing her about a new inmate. "Just how safe is she likely to be?" Ric asked, this being the concern uppermost in his mind at the moment. "You know that I cannot wholly guarantee the safety of any of my prisoners," Karen replied, "much as it pains me to say it. I will do my best to see that she is looked after, but that really is as much as I can do. Connie is a doctor, which will go down well with a lot of the inmates, until they discover that no, she isn't carrying a hefty supply of their favourite drugs, but I will do my best to try and minimise that unfortunate eventuality." "It's possible that she might make herself very unpopular," Ric told her tentatively. "She has more verbal dexterity than anyone I know, which isn't going to endear her to anyone." "She'll find her place soon enough," Karen told him confidently, "she'll have no choice." 

The first thing that hit Connie as she was escorted out of the prison van was the sunlight. It was mid August, and the darkness of the interior of the van had made her temporarily blind. She stood in the prison yard, gradually allowing her eyes to get used to the sunlight again, when a harsh, northern accent reached her ears. "Come on," Said Sylvia Hollamby sharply. "I'm not paid to stand about while you take in your surroundings." Turning to face her, Connie was greeted by the sight of a considerably overweight woman in her late fifties, wearing a prison uniform that was obviously too tight for her, and with a face that looked as though it hadn't smiled in many a long year. Barely acknowledging what the woman had said to her, Connie walked up the steps and into the prison reception area. Giving the notices on the wall and the sheer drab appearance of the place the merest hint of a glance, she moved up to the desk and stood opposite the fat woman, wondering what would happen to her next. "Name?" Sylvia demanded curtly. "Connie Beauchamp," Connie replied. But when she observed this overgrown, post-menopausal lump spelling her name incorrectly, she unceremoniously reached forward, jerked the biro from Sylvia's hand, and wrote her name in the right place on the form. "That is how you spell Beauchamp," She said stonily, handing Sylvia back her biro. "And please don't forget it." "Oh, no, not another one," Sylvia said dismally, as she assigned Connie a prison number. "Another what?" Connie replied curtly. "Your sort," Sylvia told her succinctly. "A con who was no doubt born with a plum in her gob, never mind a silver spoon. Well in here, you're a con, just like them over there," She said, gesturing to the row of prospective inmates who were sitting on a row of dingy plastic chairs opposite the desk. "And just like those you'll be housed with, so don't come you're upper-class la-di-da attitude with me. Now perhaps you'd like to do us all a favour and fill in your particulars. Seeing as you'll be spending some time with us, we want to know a little bit about you, or at least the Home Office does, so get on with it." 

Feeling that resistance was useless in this case, Connie filled in the prisoner identification form, and handed it over without a word. "First you'll be strip searched," Sylvia told her unceremoniously. "Then it'll be fingerprints and photo." "Strip searched for what, precisely?" Connie asked silkily, wondering just how she could wriggle out of this one. "For drugs," Sylvia said dismissively. "What else?" "Do you seriously think that a leading cardiothoracic surgeon would be carrying illegal drugs?" Connie replied in offended dignity. "Listen here, Lady Muck," Sylvia said, her face turning red with barely concealed anger. "All the titles in the world won't make any difference to your status in here, and neither will the string of letters you've put after your name, so cut the chit-chat and get in there and take your clothes off. Now," she added firmly, pointing to a curtained off cubicle in one corner of the room. Then, looking over at where Gina was taking the details of a very docile prisoner, she said, "Can you take over with that one? I'm sick of the high and mighty lip on her already." "If the inmates are getting too much for you, Sylvia," Gina replied, "then it's about time you retired. But yeah, I'll take over, because I can see from here that you two are only going to make a bad situation worse." Sliding the prisoner's forms along the desk to where Sylvia was standing, Gina came out from behind the desk and approached Connie. "Mrs. Beauchamp?" She said politely, glancing quickly at Connie's paperwork. "I'm Gina Rossi." Seeing that this woman was at least prepared to be civil towards her, Connie lowered her hackles slightly. "Is a strip search really necessary?" She asked Gina with just as much civility in her tone. "I'm afraid so," Gina replied sympathetically. "But it'll be over in a couple of minutes, and you won't have anything I haven't seen before." 

As Connie stood in the dingy little cubicle removing her clothes, she thought that this must just be the first step in her sojourn at this uncompromising, fear-ridden hell. She resented having to show her body to this prison officer, though she did appear to be somewhat kinder than the other one stood behind the desk. But Gina was perfectly matter-of-fact and clinical about searching her, something that Connie infinitely appreciated. After taking Connie's fingerprints and photograph for the prison records, she escorted Connie along the corridor, and removing a sample bottle from the trolley that stood along one wall, she said, "Much as you might tell me that under no circumstances would you use illegal drugs, we need to be sure." "Is a drugs test all it'll be used for?" Connie asked as Gina gestured to a nearby bathroom. "Among other things," Gina told her noncommittally. While she was waiting for Connie to reappear, Gina saw Sylvia sticking her head around the door of the reception room. "I've just had a call from Madam," Sylvia said disgustedly, using the title she often gave either Karen or Nikki, though it was Karen who had made the phone call. "When you've done with Lady Muck, she wants her taken up to her office." "Sylvia," Gina replied a little tight-lipped. "You might get on better with the prisoners if you called them by their actual names." Huffing in response to this suggestion, Sylvia returned to her duties in reception. 

Whilst all this had been going on, Karen and Nikki had been discussing the situation in Karen's office. "Can you really vouch for her safety once Sylvia lets it slip that she's at the very least a doctor?" Karen was saying. "Because we both know that she'll do that at the earliest opportunity." "No chance," Nikki replied with a shrug. "Natalie Buxton and Al McKenzie will think she's fair game from the word go, which is why I can't understand why you want her put on my Wing, which is bursting at the seams as it is." "I know that you'll look after her, and try to minimise any major fall out," Karen told her succinctly. "We both witnessed her level of verbal dexterity at Barbara's trial if you remember, something which won't endear her to either staff or inmates. Someone like Connie, is going to think that she can look after herself, when in actual fact she is likely to need the equivalent of a bodyguard, which neither you nor I can provide her with." "Just how well do you know her?" Nikki asked, wondering just what solution Karen might be about to come up with. "No more than you do," Karen replied with half a smile. "But I've known the man she's sleeping with for years. He's the surgeon who operated on George." "Jesus," Said Nikki in slight awe. "It's a small world." "What space do you actually have on G wing at the moment?" Karen asked, gradually working up to her solution to the problem. "Only one, and that's on enhanced," Nikki replied, having checked out this information before her meeting with Karen. "That's simple then," Karen replied, more than a little relieved. "Put Connie Beauchamp up there, because safety in numbers isn't a philosophy that will apply in this case." "Yeah, okay," Nikki replied a little hesitantly. "And what about giving her Gina as a personal officer." "Good idea," Karen concurred. "But have Dominic on standby just in case Gina finds her workload getting too large." "Yeah," Nikki agreed. "I keep assigning her as personal officer to too many inmates, because she's so good." 

When there came a knock on her office door, Karen called to whomever it was to come in. When Connie took in both Nikki and Karen, she stopped, now incredibly unsure as to what she should say. She had met both of these women at the Barbara Mills trial, and had occasionally caught sight of Karen Betts when she had visited George when she was in hospital. Walking over to them, Karen thanked Gina for bringing Connie up to her, and Nikki said, "Gina, please will you take a look at the spare cell on enhanced and make sure it's fit for habitation. Mrs. Beauchamp will be coming to G wing." "I'll do it as soon as I get back, but I've left Sylvia with Paula on reception, so I'll need to get back there soon." When Gina had left Karen turned her attention to Connie. She could see the fear, and the anger and the frustration, all shining in a bitterly hurt combination out of Connie's eyes. "Would you like to sit down?" Karen asked Connie quietly. Sitting in the nearest comfortable chair as a response, Connie simply looked from one woman to the other. She loathed the fact that two women she sort of knew were seeing her in such a vulnerable, despicable position. Instead of taking the seat behind her desk, Karen sat in a chair on Connie's right and regarded her thoughtfully. "No matter how often I do this," Karen began carefully. "Talking to an inmate on their arrival into prison, I have to start with a clean slate every time. But what I would like to know, is what are your immediate concerns, and what can I do to help you through what must seem like your worst nightmare?" Connie looked back at this woman, with her pretty blue eyes that appeared to exude nothing but sincere kindness, to the soft, curving mouth that had already uttered such words of reassurance. Clearing her throat, because she seemed to have so far been devoid of speech where these two women were concerned, Connie said, "I think I would have far rather come under the notice of two women I didn't know in any way whatsoever. I..." She stopped, trying to clamp down on the words that were rushing towards her mouth. "Say it," Nikki encouraged gently. "You'll feel much better if you do." Giving her a slightly tentative smile, Connie followed her advice. "I feel as though my entire life is in your hands," Connie told them, turning her face away as a few tears rose to her eyes. No, she wouldn't cry, not in front of these two, not in front of anyone in this place. She wasn't about to make herself appear even weaker than she already felt. Seeing the distress along with the determination in Connie's eyes, both Karen and Nikki began to talk about something else, to give Connie a moment to recover herself. "Do you remember the abundance of red tape we received from area management over Barbara and Lauren?" Nikki reminded Karen. "Oh yes," Karen replied with a slight shudder. "But I doubt we'll get any of that this time." "Think of it this way," Nikki told Connie. "If you've ever got a problem in here and you don't want to make it official by going through your personal officer, you can far more easily come to either Karen or myself for help than most of the others can, though we do try to make ourselves available to anyone under our care who needs help." "Why are you both doing this?" Connie asked into the resulting silence. "Because I was once in precisely the position you are now," Nikki told her quietly. "So I know exactly how angry you are, and how scared, even though you're doing everything you possibly can to hide it. I expect that you're wondering why all this has happened to you, and just how long you're going to be stuck in a place like this. Everyone feels like that when they end up in prison. I know I did, and I knew that I'd done something to warrant it." "If you had a patient, who was terrified of the situation they had found themselves in," Karen said thoughtfully. "What would you do?" "I would do my utmost to calm and reassure them," Connie replied without thinking. "Well, there you are then," Karen told her with a slight smile. 

"I didn't do it," Connie insisted vehemently. "What they're accusing me of, I honestly didn't do it." "With all due respect, Connie," Karen told her carefully. "Ninety percent of those on remand say precisely those words when they first arrive behind bars, and as Governor of this prison, I am forced to take an impartial view, no matter what my opinion might be." "Which bastard was it who charged you?" Nikki asked out of interest. "A delightful little runt called Detective Inspector Sullivan," Connie replied bitterly. "And I swear he enjoyed every minute of it." "We are well acquainted with his less than polite attitude," Karen told her. "When he was here last, Nikki gave him fairly short shrift for bringing up her past, so he is well aware that he is less than welcome in this place. Now, as I've told you, I am the prison Governor, and Nikki is your Wing Governor. Gina Rossi whom you've already met will probably be your personal officer. We are all here to help you with any difficulties you find with becoming a remand inmate. Something you ought to know, is that I had a call about you from Ric this morning. I think he wanted to make sure that you would be looked after." "I need to phone him," Connie said, wanting to reassure Ric even if she couldn't do the same for herself. "I take it that you haven't yet had your reception phone call?" Karen asked, knowing just how much Sylvia hated giving the inmates their rights. "No," Replied Connie, the possibility of talking to someone on the outside world all but consuming her. "Be my guest," Karen told her, getting up and gesturing to the phone on her desk. "Nikki and I will be outside." 

After Connie had made her fairly extensive phone call, Nikki escorted her down onto G Wing. "Even though I do say it myself," Nikki said as she locked the gates of G Wing behind them. "You could have been put somewhere far worse." "You sound almost proud," Observed Connie with a slight smile. "And wouldn't you usually say the same thing about your ward at St. Mary's?" "Yes, I suppose so," Conceded Connie, briefly wondering just when she would be able to get back to her ward, and back to her job. But as she looked around the association area, and reflected that she was about to spend a considerable amount of her time here, she couldn't help feeling as though she were in an enormous fish bowl, with everyone staring down at her destiny. "The glass roof does take a bit of getting used to," Nikki said, seeing Connie's brief look of horror. As they walked across the association area towards the metal stairs, Nikki gestured back at a door behind them. "That's the door to the officers' room, where you'll always find one or another of them if you need them. The four-bed dorm and the double and single cells that are down here are along that corridor. We are putting you upstairs on the landing usually reserved for either lifers or prisoners on the enhanced regime, partly because it's the only cell left on G wing at the moment, and partly because we think that you'll be safer in a single cell on your own than you would be if you had to share." "Thank god for small mercies," Connie replied dryly in order to disguise her relief at not having to share a cell with anyone else. She would at least have somewhere to retreat to, a tiny amount of space that she could call her own. But when they'd climbed the stairs and Connie took in the actual size of the cell that had been assigned to her, she knew a brief moment of panic. Was she going to have to spend the majority of her days cooped up in here? The cell contained a single bed, a very small metal wardrobe with an equally tiny chest of drawers at the head of the bed. There was a table and chair in place of a desk, and a toilet and wash basin in the corner opposite the end of the bed. There were some very faded curtains at the high barred window, supposedly in an effort to make the cell more inviting. "What happens now?" Connie asked, after quickly examining the space in which she was to live for god knows how long. "Do you have someone coming to visit you this afternoon?" "Yes. He is hopefully bringing my clothes and other necessities." "That's good," Replied Nikki matter-of-factly. "Well, it's nearly eleven now, and we'll be letting everyone out for half an hour's exercise at eleven thirty, before lunch. Then there'll be afternoon lock up till two, which is when those who have visits are taken down to the visitors' centre, and those who have education or work are taken to their respective areas of the prison. If you don't have any of these, I'm afraid that you'll be locked up from one until five, when association starts, which is until eight and which includes tea at half past five. Don't worry if you forget any of this, because that's what the officers are here for, to help you with any queries you might have." 

When Nikki banged the door closed and the lock fell into place, Connie wheeled round and stared at it, the sound of metal clanging on metal going through her entire body. She swivelled round, staring at each wall in turn, and eventually raised her eyes to the impossibly small window that was certainly above head height. She could feel the panic rising within her, and she tried to grab at the cell door in an effort to open it, but with no success. Telling herself to grow up and pull herself together, she sat down on the bed and put her head in her hands. She was here for the foreseeable future and there wasn't anything that she could possibly do about it. 

Connie remained like this until eleven thirty, when she began to hear the rattle of keys and the approach of other women's voices. The noise level seemed to suddenly rise, giving Connie the feeling that she was inside a bubble, and that she was about to be forced to spend time with a lot of other human beings who held absolutely no interest for her. When an officer whose name badge said Selena Geeson opened her door, Connie just looked back at her. "Time for association," Selena told her, seeing that this was a new prisoner who probably didn't understand what was happening to her. Leaving Connie's door open, Selena moved onto the next cell. But before Connie could make up her mind as to what she wanted to do, two young women appeared in her doorway. One was very attractive, of a medium build and with blonde hair and blue eyes. Her appearance somehow reminded Connie very much of Chrissie. The other woman was heavily muscled and with a very non-descript face. "So, you're the new girl," Said the woman with more muscles than most of the men Connie knew. She had a very broad Glaswegian accent. "So it would seem," Connie replied noncommittally. "We've got a posh one here, Al," Said the blonde girl. "And a doctor into the bargain." "Who told you that?" Connie asked, though she thought she could hazard a guess. "Old body bag," the girl called Al replied. "Says you're a heart surgeon." "And we all know that there's not much room for hearts in this place," Natalie said with a rather evil smirk on her face. "So," Al said as she slowly approached Connie. "Did the very nice doctor bring her new friends something to wile away the time?" "Certainly not," Connie replied scathingly. "I think we'd better find out for sure, don't you, Al?" Natalie put in, just watching as Al moved directly in front of Connie. "Aye, I think we'd better," Al replied, and with lightning reflexes, pushed Connie back on the bed and held her down. "I don't, have, anything," Connie enunciated crossly. "So you say," Natalie replied disbelievingly. "But we have to make sure, because we don't want you selling it for half the price under our noses." As Al held her down, Natalie ran her hands over Connie's body, whilst Connie did her utmost to escape from these two bitches. She didn't call for help, knowing that grassing on either of these two would probably be signing her own death certificate. But she wriggled, kicked and lashed out in any way when she got the chance. But when Natalie began searching under her skirt, Connie yelled. "No!" She shouted out first, trying to prevent Natalie from going any further. "I don't have any fucking drugs!" slapping her face with a real backhander, Al said, "That'll teach you to swear at the people who live on either side of you." When Connie thought that all was truly lost, there was a shout from the cell doorway. 

Denny had come up stairs to see who the new girl was, and had heard the shouts coming from the new girl's cell. Pushing the door fully open, she saw the tableau on the bed and knew precisely what was coming next if she didn't intervene. "Oi, leave her alone," Denny shouted, immediately getting all their attention. "Come on, Al," Denny continued. "She ain't carrying any drugs. She's a doctor for god's sake." "Well, you never know, do you," Al replied, immediately moving away from Connie and slipping out of the door. "You heard me, Buxton," Denny said smartly. "Leave her alone." "She your girlfriend or something?" Natalie asked as she too slipped out the door. "You all right, man?" Denny asked as she moved over to Connie, who was in the process of straightening her clothing. "I will be, thanks to you," Connie replied, more than a little grateful for this girl's intervention. "No worries," Denny told her. "My name's Denny, and you're Connie yeah?" "Yes, and thank you, Denny, for practically saving my life. I owe you." "Just try and keep away from Natalie Buxton," Denny told her seriously. "She's the nastiest piece of work I think I've ever come across in here. Anyway, are you coming downstairs? It's nearly lunchtime, and the Julies ain't bad cooks." 

Following Denny down the metal stairs and towards the servery, Connie didn't ask who the Julies were, simply waiting till she was told. "Julies," Denny called as they approached the servery. "This here's Connie Beauchamp. She's new." "Hiya darlin'," Julie Saunders said, looking up from the tray of sausages that she had just removed from the oven. "Julie Saunders and Julie Johnston," Denny informed Connie. "Known as the two Julies." ""Are you hungry?" Asked Julie Johnston. "Not very," Connie replied, thinking that any type of food would surely stick in her throat. "There's either sausage and mash or veggie lasagne, with carrots." "Maybe some of the lasagne," Connie said, thinking that she would give the rather dodgy-looking sausages a wide birth. "And a cup of tea?" Julie Saunders asked, proffering the enormous teapot. "Thank you," Connie replied, thinking that perhaps a mug of hot, sweet tea would help her feel just a little more human. When she and Denny picked up their trays and moved to an empty table, Denny didn't stop chattering, clearly wanting to fill her in with as much as possible. "The Julies are in for GBH," She said as she began tucking into her meal, and as Connie picked at the food in front of her. "But they're best known for tarting," Denny continued. "And you?" Connie asked, realising that at some point soon, she would have to explain to these kind women just why she was there. "Oh me," Denny said with a forkful of sausage halfway to her mouth. "I'm in for arson, innit. Burnt down the kids' home I was in, because they wanted to get shot of me. What about you?" "I'm on remand," Connie tried to explain. "And I've been charged with murdering one of my patients." "That's shit, man," Denny said sympathetically. "You got yourself a lawyer yet?" "No, not yet," Connie admitted. Just then, they saw the Julies making their way towards them with loaded trays. "Julies," Denny said as they sat down opposite to Connie and Denny. "What was the name of that other posh bitch, who was shaggin' Miss Betts in the middle of Lauren's trial?" "Oh, you're talking about George Channing," Said Julie Johnston, much to Connie's amazement. "Do you three know her?" Connie asked, her veggie lasagne now forgotten. "'Course we do," Replied Julie Saunders. "Well, we've definitely met her a couple of times. Anyway, when her and Miss Betts, that's our Governor, were seeing quite a lot of each other, she came here when Miss Betts had to cover a Friday night." "Sexiest thing I've ever seen in here. Well, since my Shaz died. But yeah, you should employ George Channing. She'd get you off, no sweat." 


	3. Chapter 3

Part Three

The difference in atmosphere at St. Mary's could be immediately felt when Ric went into work the following morning. He could feel the whispers long before he could see them of those who really sympathized with Connie's plight, and those who stood on one side to hear the latest gossip. Will looked very reticent and reserved and kept himself to himself. Tricia's expression of concern was obvious from a million miles away.  
"What's the latest on Connie?" Chrissie asked before Tricia corrected her.  
"I hope she's coping with everything"  
A flood of visual impressions invaded Ric's mind, which made it hard for him to put it into words. What should he say that was fit for public consumption, he wondered? Ric measured his words carefully, but finding that nothing in his mind fitted the occasion. Tricia was sharp eyed enough to empathise with the conflicts in Ric's mind. "The very idea of Connie doing anything other than putting patients first," she added derisively. Ric smiled warmly at the way she poured scorn on the very idea of the charges levelled at Connie and noticed her equal inability to put it in cold, hard words.  
"I'd be happier about Connie if she were angry, even at me. At least it would show that she's fighting back"  
"She won't be down for long, Ric. She'll end up by giving the police hell." Ric smiled at Nick's rough and ready manner. It was just what the situation needed. The other man was becoming more congenial company than he had ever expected.  
"We shouldn't worry too much. The truth will come out in the end. Give it time." Will put in. The other man's cool controlled realism comforted Ric and helped him achieve the balance that he was struggling for. Even the man whom Connie was at most at odds with was pitching in and helping where it was needed.  
"I've been on the phone to Connie. She's being held on remand at Larkhall Prison. I'm going to visit Connie there." "Count me in to help cover your lists for you. You leave that to us to sort out." Nick said promptly. Ric smiled gratefully at the other man for his practical suggestion. It wasn't lost on Rick that Nick would earn a few brownie points and self interest was never far from his calculations, but he concluded that there was a strong element of generosity in his motivations. "I'll see to it that you'll hear of any developments but in the meantime, no rumour mongering." Ric looked carefully around the assembled crowd. He really wasn't too comfortable at being temporarily in command. He had managed so far but who knows what internal battles he would have to referee as time went on. He dared not think too much for the future. "I've also got some of Connie's personal belongings to take in," Ric added a little hesitantly, broaching a matter, which he felt even less self-assured about. "Do you want me to check them over? I'm sure you'll have got everything Connie would need but you never know"  
"Please." Ric added shortly with a brief smile that Tricia had come to the rescue.

He set off gingerly in the borrowed Jag, being careful to keep the immaculate interior spotless and driving with more care than he was used to. He followed the directions very carefully to this unknown part of town, which he had passed close to many times unthinkingly. At last, he came to the side street, which his map told him would take him straight to his destination. He was brought up short by the stark and forbidding high castle walls topped by curls of barbed wire. The grim building spread either side of the entrance lodge, complete with solid wooden gates. It took his breath away. He realized that, all his life, he had never taken the idea of prison seriously enough and he wondered what other surprises were in store for him, let alone Connie who was stuck somewhere inside there.

The man on the gate was polite and efficient enough though he made him turn out the contents of his pockets, unclipped Connie's case and frisked through the belongings.  
"Why are you doing this?" "Sorry sir, but it's standard procedures for all visitors." Ken replied respectfully enough." We have to ensure that nothing is smuggled in, like drugs or anything dangerous. For instance, I can't let that bottle of perfume be taken in"  
"……meaning"  
"Glass can be broken. It can become a dangerous weapon. We can't make exceptions, however respectable the visitor. If I don't do my job properly, the governor will have my guts for garters. I'll hold this perfume for you to collect when you sign out. There's no problem with the CD clock radio and also the CDs"  
Ric's well-concealed anger evaporated with this reasonable explanation and the concession. He could understand the man's position. If it didn't make Ric realize what a different world he had stepped into, the sight of the bolts and bars in the distance certainly made the penny drop very forcefully. He realized that this was Karen that the security guard was talking about. She was in as much authority over it as Connie was over St. Mary's. Such a lapse would also offend that sense of correctness, which he had seen in Karen as a nurse.

As Ric made his way into the stuffy, smoke-laden echoing room that was the visitor's room, he was first disconcerted to see Connie looking less made up than normal and dishevelled despite her best efforts. This would have been impossible before today. There was a disturbing mark on her cheek that, with an effort, he tried his best to ignore. He was gratified to see her attempt at a smile across the crowded room but on getting closer, could see how miserable she felt. She looked really down in the dumps.  
"Can you all take your seats as soon as possible and I must remind all prisoners and visitors to stay seated till the end of visiting time." Came the polite voice from the man who was standing and watching what was going on. A shorter, plumper woman was seated at the desk. "How is my hospital going on in my absence? Things had better be in order." Connie greeted Ric with a rush of words.  
"We're just about managing as everyone's been pulling together but I don't mind admitting that I really don't enjoy acting as your stand-in, keeping everyone organized. I'm not really cut out for the job while you obviously are"  
It struck Ric that Connie's smile betrayed much more of her feelings than she normally allowed herself at work. Then again, they weren't at work but in some strange alternative zone.  
"Even Will and Nick"  
"Will has been no trouble while Nick has become positively helpful"  
Connie's delicately raised eyebrows betrayed her mild astonishment. There was a pause in the conversation. "How lovely to see you, Ric. I should have said so earlier." Ric felt constrained by the alien authority from being as demonstrative as he would have liked, so Connie took his large hand in hers and gave it an affectionate squeeze.  
"I hope you've been looked after here, Connie?" Ric enquired casually.  
"There's Gina Rossi and Dominic McAllister on duty over there." Connie veered off the topic, explaining her situation as if to a novice. "They're pretty human. Not all prison officers are like that. My particular enemy is a particularly incompetent and malicious jobs worth who I've crossed swords with already." Connie nearly added that if she was working in her hospital, she wouldn't last five minutes but it brought too close to home the memory of what she'd lost. "You meet all sorts here and it certainly opens your eyes. Denny Blood and two women called the two Julies talk about George Channing as if they're old friends from when she'd visited here."

"It's a small world, Connie. Is there anything practical that you want me to do for you"  
"That reminds me, you need to see George Channing to engage her services for this case. I need someone tough and determined and prepared to fight my corner"  
"That sounds like George Channing all right. I need to find out her address"  
"Either Karen or Nikki will sort that one out for you. You mind that you take time out to see her. You aren't so indispensable that St. Mary's won't manage without you for a bit longer." Somehow, Connie had regained a fraction of her ability to be organized and masterful. Ric sensed how desperately she needed to feel this way. "What's the food like?" Ric enquired conversationally at which point Connie pulled a face of disgust.  
"I'll never get used to greasy sausages and fried eggs for breakfast. Still, the Julies try their best so I suppose I can't complain"  
That grimace prompted Ric to ask the question that he had wanted to ask since he first saw her. His need to know the worst battled with his disinclination to ask a delicate question, while all the hurly burly echoed around him and could be seen at the periphery of his vision.  
."You don't mind me asking but where did you get that bruise on your cheek"  
"There's a girl called Denny that has become my bodyguard after two unspeakable women tried to search me for drugs. You learn to realize who your friends are." "You mean"  
"Not prison officers, Ric. I mean prisoners who were looking to me to supply the local drugs racket. I don't mean the prescribed kind either." An indefinable look in Connie's eyes told Ric not to question her any further. Ric decided to strike the positive note. "Still, I'm glad you've made some friends here"  
Connie nodded, tears threatening to invade her eyes. Her experience had taken her back to basics as to what life was really about, like the dim and distant school playground but on a much more dangerous level.

On his way out, Ric spotted Karen who was taking a break from her paperwork and was making her presence known on the wing. He hesitated for a few second as she passed the time of day with prison officer and prisoner alike. It was not unlike seeing Connie at work in the way she related to those around her and was at the centre of everything. "Can I ask you a favour, Karen? Connie has asked me to engage George as her barrister. I need her phone number and her address so that I can drive over and get things moving"  
Karen nodded approvingly and led him along the corridors to her office. While it was not the luxurious executive suite, it somehow impressed him.  
"I'll lay my hands on it. I know where to look"  
Karen flipped through her address book and promptly turned up the right page. She scribbled down a note for him in her neat handwriting. "Can I phone her up from here"  
"Be my guest"  
The phone rang for a few minutes until Ric heard the phone being picked up. It was her long-suffering secretary who put Ric through to her. "George Channing"  
"It's Ric Griffin. Would it be possible to make an urgent appointment in as long as it takes to drive from Larkhall Prison to your office"  
There was a distinct pause. Beneath Ric's easy tones, George detected that very slight edge in his voice that made her sit up and take notice. "There's no easy way to put it. Connie Beauchamp has been arrested for the supposed murder of one of her patients"  
A feeling of total shock went through George like a bolt of lightning. Her throat was dry as she struggled for words.  
"Don't talk now, Ric. You come over straightaway and give me all the facts. I'll give you all the time I need." George said at last tersely after a very distinct pause.

George's shock made Ric relive the feelings of paralyzing horror when Connie was arrested. He put the phone down with a shaking hand. He closed his eyes for a moment before turning to Karen and trying to smile.  
"You've come a long way since you used to be a nurse, Karen"  
"It took a lot of hard graft to get here. I can now see the fruits of it all, with more time to savour it than I ever used to as a struggling single parent."

Ric strolled out into the open air and crossed the cobble yard. He signed out and was glad to escape into a world where bolts and bars didn't exist. Unknown to him, Yvonne smiled and joked with Ken and followed Ric to where their cars were parked. As he fished Connie's bunch of keys out of his pocket, a voice sounded just behind him, making him jump. "Long time no see, Mr. Griffin"  
"I had no idea that you were here. You were the last person that I expected to see"  
"Didn't you see me in the visitor's room. I was seeing Denny Blood"  
"Connie mentioned her. I understand she's looking after her"  
"Denny'll do her best to make sure that Connie won't come to any harm"  
"How do you know that"  
"I did time here. I got to know Denny and she sort of became my daughter. She's dead kind hearted but she won't take any shit off anyone. "How are you getting on these days"  
"If you mean, do I still gamble? I stopped that a few years back and I've kept the creditors off my back. I've even got spare money to spend if I want to." "That's good, Ric." Yvonne responded warmly. She remembered years ago that glitter in Ric's eyes as he slunk into the betting shop and the feeling of hating to take his money yet again. "Which wing is Connie on"  
"I think she mentioned G Wing"  
"Connie'll be all right. The wing governor is Nikki Wade. She knows prisoners and she can smell a villain a mile away. All her officers are dead straight and are her ears and eyes. No one can pull the wool over their eyes. Most of the other girls are decent though you're bound to get the odd rotten apple in any barrel. She could do a hell of a lot worse, believe me." Yvonne said after a pause, ancient memories coming back to her. It was as well that this good looking man never got to hear of it as he was anxious for her safety no matter how much he was trying to disguise his feelings. 


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Betaed by Jen. 

Part Four

When Ric drove away from the prison in Connie's Jag, he tried to assimilate all the new impressions that he had just received. Connie had talked about people he didn't know, after first asking after the health of her ward, which he took to be a fairly natural enquiry from her. She had received a slap to her face at some point during the morning, something which made him grit his teeth in anger. The question uppermost in his mind was whether or not she could really look after herself in there? If he had been slapped into prison for his bankruptcy offences, he would have obviously found it difficult, but physically, he could certainly have looked after himself without too much trouble. But Connie, was she really made of the stuff that knows how to throw punches when necessary? Privately, he doubted this, but he would never dream of saying as much to Connie. 

But now here he was, driving across London to George Channing's office, in a hope that she would help Connie out of this mess. He didn't doubt that she would. Whilst George had been in hospital back in early March, she had seemed to build an affinity with Connie, something he could never have expected, if the rumours about the Barbara Mills trial were really true. He had to smile at realising that George's office was in the heart of Knightsbridge, so putting her in the midst of expensive shopping territory, no doubt to provide a welcome distraction when things became a little too dull and tedious. This area of London always reminded him of Connie when he had the pleasure of driving through it. She would also shop in the most expensive places, just like George. 

When he was shown upstairs to George's office, he saw her standing in the doorway to her office, clearly waiting for him. She looked extremely concerned, and he knew just by looking at her that here was Connie's advocate, someone who might just be able to get her out of prison. "Ric," She said as he came up to her. "I would say that it's nice to see you, but in the circumstances I really can't." As Ric moved into her office, George asked her secretary to bring them some coffee. "And please hold all calls for the next hour," She instructed. "Though if the French Foreign Secretary phones again, please put him straight through." "I take it that the French Foreign Secretary will wait for no man, or woman for that matter," Ric said as George closed the door and moved over to the little group of chairs surrounding a coffee table where Ric was now sitting. "I may have kept men waiting for most of my life," George replied somewhat drolly, "But not even I will keep the French Foreign Secretary waiting." Ric couldn't help but smile. "How are you?" he asked as she sat down and lit a cigarette. "Still here," She replied, "Back to work, thank god, and no doubt putting some barristers and judges into early retirement because they've heard that I'm still alive and kicking, thanks to you." "And still smoking, I see," He said, thinking that she was reminding him of Connie more and more. "Ric," George said quietly. "You didn't come here to raise an eyebrow at my long list of bad habits." "No," He replied just as seriously, though he didn't seem able to continue. George simply waited, quietly smoking, giving him as much time as he needed to begin a very difficult conversation. Breaking the silence a few minutes later, her secretary appeared with a tray of fresh coffee. This seemed to break the ice a little, for Ric began speaking just as soon as she had left. 

"It's funny," He said, as though his tongue had been loosened by the interruption. "But the first time I met you, we were sat in a room not dissimilar to this. You were there to seek my advice, and now it's the other way round." "I know," George replied gently. "Tell me what's happened." "A few weeks ago," Ric began a little hesitantly. "There was a patient who died, and nobody could find the cause. When the post-mortem was done, they still couldn't find an adequate cause of death, though I think that was more down to professional incompetence than anything else. The pathologist who did the post-mortem has since retired, and I wasn't the only one who thought that for him, it had been a very long time in coming." "I get the idea," George replied, thinking that if no cause of death were to be found, Ric possibly had a point. "So, then the police were brought in, on the insistence of the dead woman's family, and it was the evidence at the crime scene, rather than the body itself, that gave the police more cause for concern. The side room where the woman died has been sealed off and out of action ever since, and it was an old friend of mine, Detective Inspector Archer, plus a man called Sullivan whom I hadn't met before, who marched onto Darwin yesterday lunchtime to arrest Connie for the murder of her patient." "Not Sullivan with the Scottish accent and the truly awful haircut?" "The very same," Ric told her with a rueful smile. "He would have taken great delight in charging someone like Connie." "She didn't say much when I saw her at the police station last night, but I suspect he did." 

"So, she has actually been charged with this patient's murder?" "Yes, and has also been remanded in custody for the foreseeable future. I went to see her today, mainly to take in some clothes and other necessities." "It's a pretty ugly place, isn't it." "Yes, and I really can't picture Connie remaining there until this mess is sorted out. The first thing she asked me was how her ward was coping without her. George, being cooped up in a place like that for the next few months, it'll kill her." "And I'm not going to let that happen," George told him earnestly. "However, I can't begin to play my cards, until I know who is going to be fighting on the other side." Getting up from her chair, she crossed to the desk and picked up the phone, and dialled Jo's number. 

"Darling, it's George," She said when Jo answered the phone. "Is this business or pleasure?" Jo asked with a smile in her voice. "Business, I'm afraid," George told her. "Can you do a little digging for me? I need to know who is going to be acting for the prosecution in the future trial of the Crown V Mrs. Connie Beauchamp." "Yes, I saw that in the paper this morning," Jo told her. "Though I don't know how you think I can find that out, she's only just been charged." "Well, I give you leave to use any method you see fit," George told her none too seriously. "Because yours truly here will be acting for the defence, should a trial really be deemed necessary." "That was quick," Jo observed dryly. "Well, things need to happen quickly if success is going to be achieved. Why not try Neumann Mason-Alan. He's practically sleeping with the CPS these days, so he should know." "Give me half an hour," Jo said resignedly, knowing that she could almost never say no to George when she poured every ounce of willpower into her persuasive tactics. 

When Jo returned George's call a little while later, she simply said, "Brian Cantwell." "Oh," Was George's reply. "Thanks darling, I owe you one." "That'll be the day," Jo laughed affectionately. "Since when did George Channing owe anyone anything?" "Absolutely right," George replied with a self-satisfied smirk. "I'll see you later." Putting down the phone, she said, "Brian Cantwell will be acting for the prosecution. He is at least half human being, which means that one can have a perfectly normal conversation with him, which means that doing the odd deal with him is possible. If a case interests him enough, he is prepared to negotiate." "That sounds dangerous," Ric commented warily. "Oh, don't worry," George promised him. "Any deal I do with Brian Cantwell will be advantageous to Connie, not him, though I will have to make it look as though he will also be getting something out of it." "And when will you go and see Connie?" Ric asked. "Tomorrow morning. I'll talk to either Karen or Nikki and make the necessary arrangements. If Connie calls you tonight, tell her that I'll be visiting tomorrow." 

As soon as Ric had left, George got on the phone, wanting to get things moving as soon as possible. "Brian, it's George Channing," She said when she'd got him on the phone. "George," He replied, sounding pleased to hear from her. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" "The Crown versus Beauchamp," George told him without any hesitation. "I hear that you'll be acting for the prosecution." "News does travel fast," Brian commented dryly. "What interest do you have in the case?" "I will be acting for the other side." "Oh, well," Brian replied philosophically. "At least it'll be anything but boring. So, what can I do for you?" "The original post-mortem, I'm assuming that you'll be discarding that in favour of another?" "Of course, now that Mrs. Beauchamp has been charged, there is a need for a more extensive investigation." "Do you know if that has already been done?" "As far as I know it'll be taking place tomorrow. Why?" "Do you think you could get them to hold fire for a while?" George asked, not banking on him saying yes. "Give me a good reason and I might consider it," Brian replied noncommittally. "The prosecution has had first crack at the crime scene, so I was wondering if you might consider giving the defence the first real crack at the post-mortem." "Are you thinking of getting that very attractive American pathologist in on the act again?" "Something like that," George conceded with a smile. "Okay," Brian said after a few moments' silence. "You obviously have something up your sleeve, so why not? You know how much I enjoy the fight, the more interesting the better." 

After calling Cantwell, George put a call through to Kay, phoning her at home as it would be just after eleven in the evening in Virginia. "Scarpetta," Came the familiar announcement. "Kay, its George Channing." "George, this is a nice surprise," Replied Kay, clearly pleased to hear from her. "You're not in bed?" George asked, not wanting to have disturbed her. "No, not at all," Kay assured her. "Marino and I have just got back from Washington. Marino is working his way down my bottle of Bourbon, and I'm drinking a glass of Burgundy. How are you?" "I'm fine," George assured her. "And I am again in need of your expertise." "Not another of your friends who's managed to get herself in trouble?" Kay asked sardonically. "Something like that," George admitted sheepishly. "Remember Connie Beauchamp?" "One could hardly forget her, or the stunt you pulled on her in court." "Well, Connie has been accused of the murder of one of her patients, and has been remanded in custody until the trial." "My god!" Kay exclaimed in shock. "How did that happen?" "That's what I want you to find out," George explained. "I am representing Connie, but I need some serious help with this one. I've managed to persuade the prosecuting counsel to hold off on the post-mortem, though one has already been done with no results." "So really, you want me over there sooner rather than later," Kay surmised. "Within the next week if possible." "You don't ask much, do you," Kay replied with a smile. Then she had an idea. "Why don't I bring Marino with me so that the defence can also have a go at the crime scene?" "Do you think he'd come?" George asked, thinking the idea a brilliant one. "After a couple of glasses of Bourbon," Kay told her confidently. "Marino will do anything for me." "Oh, will I now?" Marino asked in the background. Turning to him, Kay asked, "How do you feel about going to England for a few days?" "Why?" Marino asked suspiciously. "Because George and I need your help with investigating a crime scene and possibly interviewing the suspect, just to make sure she didn't do it." "Yeah, why not," Marino replied after a moment's thought. "A change of scene might do me good. You too, Doc." "There you are then," Kay relayed to George. "I'll check out the flights tomorrow and let you know. You'll finally get to meet Marino in the flesh." 


	5. Chapter 5

Part Five

Michael Beauchamp's shiny black BMW turned off the motorway and threaded its way through the last few tiresome miles towards his and hers stately home. It was situated just enough discreet miles from St.Mary's, just far away into the countryside. He felt satisfied with a few days successful conference. That meant that he had greased the palms of fellow surgeon thrusting entrepreneurs in the evolving NHS plc incorporated and enjoyed some of the hard earned after conference pleasures that his position entitled him to. This is what their partnership was all about, that Connie devotes herself to the nuts and bolts, or rather scalpels and stethoscopes, of the material profession plus some corporate trimmings while he specializes in the real business of high-level politics. This arrangement had been beneficial to both of them and resulted in a longer lasting marriage than most, what with the stresses and strains of modern living.

The first indication of anything out of the ordinary was when he phoned Connie's mobile , and her automated voice advised him for the third time. "I'm busy right now but if you care to leave your name, phone number and message, I will phone you back as soon as I am free"  
Instead of leaving a message as he would otherwise have done, Michael hung up and started to get a bit concerned, as she knew that he was due to come back today. It was not like her to not contact him straightaway so that he could update her on the latest developments. When he drew his car up on the front drive, he resolved to investigate further.  
"Connie, I'm home." He called out loudly to an empty, echoing house.  
He turned around and saw a pile of envelopes strewn on the doormat, where they had fallen together with today's copy of 'The Times.' This was certainly not like Connie, he mused idly, as she invariably tidied any letters away for further action. He picked them up and, moving to the dining room, sat down to idly glance through the paper, fully expecting Connie to appear in the doorway. A second later, Connie's face popped into view, not in the flesh, but jumped out at him from Page 4 of the newspaper.  
"Top surgeon held by police over death of patient" the headlines screamed at him.  
"Good heavens," Michael exclaimed, his mouth open with shock.

Life had not prepared him for this crisis. His unbelieving eyes skimmed the article as he tried to come to terms with this bombshell but they were drawn irresistibly to ugly words in the offending paragraphs. Slowly, his mind started to piece together the relevant facts of a patient called Angela Masters. The implication was that not only had the patient died but also that Connie had murdered her for reasons unknown.  
"Totally ridiculous," he exclaimed to himself. Because the idea was so laughable, he allowed himself to pretend that the situation didn't exist and that the newspaper was as unreal as the events described. Only when he had second thoughts did a cold, chill feeling work through the system and that he had reasons to fear the potential fallout as he realized that others were probably reading the very same article. The partnership was in imminent peril. It was this that stirred him to action.

"I'm afraid that this is a crime scene. Not even the Home Secretary can give authorization for you to gain access and risk disturbing vital evidence." Jumped up little nobody, Michael fumed inwardly in anger. This was the second unreal event in short succession and this came closest to home. He never thought that he would live to see the day when he could be barred from hospital records. After all, he was the chairman of the board of trustees, wasn't he?

"But this is absurd. I have a perfect right of access." Michael exploded.  
"I'm sorry, sir, but rules is rules. If I let you go, my super will have my head on the block"  
"This has never happened to me in all my professional career. You ought to be careful just who you're talking to." Michael blustered and threatened.  
"This is a new one on me I admit but I insist that you can't pass through. Not even the Home Secretary can give you the OK to pass through"  
A blinding illumination of a light bulb flashed in Michael's mind. The solution was simple. 

Fury drove Michael off in a blinding rage, heading straight as an arrow to the grandeur and majesty of the Home Office and to Neil Haughton's suite in particular. With the assumption that all security and receptionists gave way to him, he walked straight into Neil Haughton's office where he was discussing plans with three of his underlings. They were so intent upon their discussion that for a while they weren't aware of his presence.

"So are you're suggesting that legal executives, who have professional qualifications and work in solicitors' firms doing some of the work of solicitors, would be eligible for the first time for posts as district judges, the lowest rank of the judiciary, or to serve on tribunals?" Neil Haughton was saying, managing to pick the brains of more junior, more gifted subordinates who had dreamed up this plan. He could imagine the way the rest of the cabinet would smile kindly on the idea. It had that touch of radicalism that was the flavour of the month.  
"It would make inroads into that backwards looking, obstructionist culture. We could sell it as promoting equal opportunities. We estimate that 60 of the potential new intake are women. You can get away with murder so long as you can hang an equal opportunities shopping tag on it"  
"Not literally, I trust." It was only after the pause after Neil Haughton's half joke that he became aware of his old friend. A spasm of irritation briefly twisted his face until his facial muscles moved in their accustomed order of that smile reserved for those who would be useful to him. It was taken as read that the ethics of the market place had penetrated the one time intimacy of personal friendships.  
"Michael, this is an unexpected pleasure. I didn't realise that you were going to make a surprise visit"  
"…..if it's inconvenient, I could call back another day"  
"…….no no, Michael, we were wrapping up a little bit of blue sky thinking. You will obviously be discreet about what you've overheard. 'Mum's the word"  
The feminine motif didn't exactly go down well with Michael at that moment as they danced insincerely around each other but he composed his face into a suitable expression.  
"Of course, Neil. That goes without saying." "Excuse me, I have an important guest that I have to deal with. We'll carry on with this conference when I have time to digest your opinions. In the meantime, these deliberations remain top secret." The three men made a discreet retreat to where they came from, moving like conspirators even if they were near the top of the governmental apparatus. "Michael, what can I do for you? It must be something serious for you to come at such short notice." "Haven't you read the papers, Neil? Connie's been arrested on some ridiculous charge of murder. It's in the newspaper on your desk. "  
"It must have slipped my attention." Neil Haughton vaguely apologised, as he reached for his copy of the 'Times". His expression betrayed the fact that anything that didn't directly threaten his own welfare was someone else's problem. He had that tunnel vision which suited his narrow-minded ambitions ,and stopped his mental processes being cluttered by inconvenient feelings of conscience. His slightly fumbling fingers leafed through the paper and got to the page where, as Michael expected, Connie's face and slight smile stared out at him. He had skimmed the paper first thing in the morning and couldn't understand how come he'd missed it.  
"It's unfortunate, Michael, and you and Connie have my very deepest sympathy at your predicament"  
"Sympathy isn't enough, Neil. I wanted to make a discreet personal check of the hospital records and some little jobsworth wouldn't let me pass. I demand that you enable me to get access"  
"I'm really sorry, Michael but while the investigation is under way, it is out of my hands. In any case, I can't be seen to let even one person slip through the net. You never know if some press hound is sniffing around with a camera"  
"This isn't good enough, Neil, I want to know what the hell is going on, if not with my own eyes, then indirectly with your help"  
"It says in the paper that"  
"Come off it, Neil. You know as well as I do that what gets printed is only what's fit for public consumption. It says nothing." "You're putting me in a difficult position. I have to play things by the book. It's up to the police to go through the due process of law…..." "Are you telling me that you, Neil Haughton, have spent years climbing the slippery pole of success and, now that you've got there, you can't find out what some tin pot inspector is doing, someone you could buy and sell any day of the week? If that is really the situation, what the hell are you doing here? Other than that, you're holding out on me and don't expect any favours in future from me when you want them"  
Michael's withering contempt at Neil Haughton's ineptitude was starting to make him feel highly uncomfortable. At the back of his mind, he was uneasily aware that if some event personally affected him, he would be doing his own share of threatening and blustering and stamping his feet in general. He couldn't say it but he was placed in the dilemma of either trying to find his way round a department the lower reaches of which he hadn't the foggiest idea of where to start looking or entrusting the job to a more knowledgeable underling. This was his normal option and he was accustomed to sit back and wait for the information. The problem with that course of action was in entrusting that subordinate with some idea of the purpose of his investigations. However, to confess all would mean losing face in front of someone in whose eyes he wished to appear strong and masterful. " You misunderstand me, Michael. I can see what you're getting at, really I do. If I were in your shoes, I'd want to know what's what .I will make my own discreet investigations in due course, in the fullness of time, when the time is right. These things take time you know"  
Michael let the man babble on. It was extraordinary that, in a rare moment of idleness and boredom, he had recently watched an old episode of 'Yes minister' in his hotel suite. It struck him forcibly that Neil Haughton of all people was Jim Hacker personified. He was throwing up clouds of meaningless verbiage to act as a smokescreen for him to hide his embarrassment. He felt contempt for the man. He remembered the recent party political broadcast when Neil Haughton's glittering eyes and hard-edged tones promised short shrift for illegal aliens who would be booted out in short order. A storm trooper in the SS would have admired the man's sheer fanaticism and positively psychopathic determination to the cause in hand. The two images of the same man just didn't coexist within the same physical body. "I suppose that I will have to take matters into my own hands. I would have thought you would have pulled out the stops for me." "Don't panic, Michael. I'm sure that Connie will get some red-hot barrister who is capable of wiping the floor with the opposition. If only I were on better terms with my ex, she'd be the one who might save Connie"  
"And couldn't you approach her, Michael"  
"That would make matters worse. There's some perverse streak in women that if you ask them something, they take it into their heads to do the opposite. That applies even if you aren't on the wrong side of them. Present relationships with George as far as I have any contact with her are not good." "She would be richly rewarded"  
"That isn't enough for her. She's changed and gone peculiar. It's as if she's become infected by the wishy-washy liberal values that infests the judiciary so deeply. I can't understand what makes her tick these days"  
"So you can't help me at all." Michael concluded in flat tones.  
"Just leave it up to me. I'll think of something. Trust me"  
It was that confiding look in the man's eye that made Michael free associate between politicians and second hand car salesmen. He couldn't work out how he had never made that mental connection till now. 


	6. Chapter 6

Part Six

Connie's first impressions of her cell hadn't deceived her when she returned to it. It was impossibly small, not much more than a rabbit hutch and horribly impersonal and institutional. As time went on, her first feelings of panic gave way to more profound feelings of being seriously disturbed psychologically as she sat alone on the bed. She felt that the four bare walls and the low ceiling were pressing in on her, even if it gave her much needed privacy. In front of her was a dark rectangular door that was implacably shut. That was what made her start to panic inside, that dread dark realm which she shut away from public view and also from her own awareness. Truly, prison was starting to make her face life, internally and externally, that she had never suspected even existed. Suddenly, the jingling sound of keys made her jump inside but she sank back in relief as Gina Rossi swung open the door, passing a small case to her. "A mate of you has brought a few things for you, Connie. I didn't quite catch his name. Good looking black guy who could charm the birds off the trees"  
"That sounds like Ric Griffin." Connie smiled warmly at the other woman.  
Connie unpacked the case and, to her delight, her clock CD-player and her favourite CD's appeared before her eyes as well as toiletries and changes of clothes. Most important of all were a couple of packets of cigarettes.  
"Not bad. If he got that lot together, he must have a few brain cells to rub together. No fella that I've ever known would be as smart as that. I'll leave you to make your place feel a little more homelike"  
Connie appreciated Gina's businesslike but friendly manner. It was what she needed right now rather than an overdose of treacly sympathy for her plight.  
"Thanks, Gina. I….I really appreciate your help right now"  
For a second, Connie was about to phrase her thanks in the passive tense but that would not have done a quarter of the justice that the other woman's kind-hearted justice deserved. Gina nodded, smiled and quietly locked the door behind her.

On first glance, the wardrobe was impossibly small but somehow she hung a dress and a couple of pairs of trousers in it and started to squeeze the rest of her clothes in the miniscule chest of drawers. She realized the necessity for functional clothes, which could stand a bit of wear and tear. After tidying everything away, she put her hands on her hips in satisfaction. She judged that a fraction of her home had transplanted itself to this small space and felt satisfied. Best of all, she clicked on the CD player and the sinuous sounds of Tori Amos pervaded her cell and made it feel something like human. The Dido CD could wait till later. She thought ruefully to herself that, if there was one thing she was not short of, it was time.  
Connie heard the approaching sounds that she knew that she would have to get used to, as something that would punctuate her day. It was the mingled sounds of heavy footsteps, the distorted echoes of clanging sounds of cell doors opening and the calls to the prisoners and assorted repartee. The keys turned in the lock and Connie's face automatically hardened as the scowling face of Sylvia came into sight "It's time for association"  
"What's association"  
"It means that you are allowed out of your cell from 6pm to 8pm.If you are so clever, you should know that by now"  
"Association with who or what"  
"It means that you take yourself out of your cell, file downstairs on proper order to the canteen for tea, talk to your fellow cons or watch TV. That's what we call association, that you can associate with your fellow cons"  
"You mean I have a choice?" Connie enquired in her sweetest, most innocent tones. "Not if I had my way. You'd be locked in your cell with Gideon's Bible to read in your spare time"  
"Well, I'd better get going. We can't keep everyone waiting." Bodybag scowled at the impudent stuck up woman, all airs and graces. She had wanted to 'put one over' her only the infuriating con seemed to bounce off in an unexpected direction like India rubber. She was clearly cheeking her but she couldn't think of a response to pin her down. She stomped off to open the next cell while Connie moved off quickly to the top of the staircase and looked down onto the wing. The sight of the floors below her made her a little dizzy as she hadn't realized how many staircases she'd climbed. While she waited, a mumbled 'hurry up' from the woman behind her prompted her to join the stream of women from the 3s making their way downstairs. Long dormant habits from school made her join the queue for the canteen. She suddenly realized that she was starving, and she suppressed her normal fastidious eating habits. The choice was baked beans on toast or scrambled eggs. The large young woman behind the servery took pity on Connie and generously spooned a large portion of scrambled eggs on her plate, which she eagerly accepted.  
She was delighted to see her new friend Denny gesture in her direction and join her and the Julies who, in turn smiled and waved. Connie accepted the invitation gratefully. It felt as if she were the new girl at school and dim and distant memories started to roll back into her consciousness. "Hiya darlin'" Julie Johnson greeted her. "Have you got settled in on the 3s"  
"As far as it's possible to settle in. The cell' is a bit small," Connie answered with a pale smile.  
"It helps to be on the 3s, Connie.You could be locked in at night, sharing a cell with some psycho or a crack head. There are a few around here that you need to watch out for"  
"I see. I hadn't thought of that," Connie replied slowly. It put an entirely different complexion on things. The knowing look she received from Julie Saunders told her that the other woman had seen straight through her deliberate understatement. She was starting to learn not to take people on face value. In another time, she would have passed by someone like the Julies as lowly domestic drudges without a second thought, beneath her notice. In turn, the Julies instantly spotted a trace of fear flick across the other woman's expression. They had to hand it to her that she did a bang up job of covering it up, almost up to Yvonne's standard. "'Scuse me for putting it this way, but if you take my advice, you'd be best to see your cell as something like your home. It'll help you get through the days. We know you've got your trial coming up but that's a long time away. It don't pay to look too far ahead"  
"Thanks, Julie. I've learnt to take your advice very seriously. My cell looks a bit better with the few clothes brought in by my friend Ric at visiting time. It seems a bit friendlier now," Connie replied diplomatically.  
"Yeah, Gina was telling us about him. From what we've heard, that fella's a bit of all right. Very tasty if you don't mind us saying so"  
"He is and he's a good friend as well," said Connie grinning at the very blunt description before the implications of their knowledge sank home, "How on earth did you get to hear about him, Julie?" "Oh, we get to know. There ain't nothing that we don't get to hear about sooner or later"  
"You need your friends, man, even more than you need them on the outside." Denny chimed in, to Connie's bemusement at being so addressed. "There's good and bad on this wing and it ain't obvious who's who." "Tell you what, we'll introduce them to you before you get talking to them, like, so you'll know who you're mixing with." Julie Johnson added.  
"What about telling me the reason why they're inside?"

"You see that Scottish haggis, Al McKenzie that's glaring at us right now. She first came here for GBH and handling stolen goods. She's doing life because her and Maxi Purvis done in Virginia O'Kane, who was doing time for running her knocking shops." Denny led off, figuring that Connie's suggestion made basic sense as far as it went. "Buki Lester over the far table knifed her pimp after he beat her up. She's all right I suppose," Julie Johnson added.  
"There's Tina O'Kane just coming towards us from the servery," Denny commented as the large girl with a nice smile headed their way. "She came the same time as Al along with her sister Maxi. She got released only she went and set fire to a clothes shop"  
"Why on earth did she do that"  
"She'd no money, no job and no real home. She missed her mates and I reckon she got lonely 'cos all her mates are on the inside. She's dead nice and a good mate"  
"So Al murdered Tina's mother?" concluded Connie.  
"Not really." Julie Saunders explained. "It's dead complicated. She was born Tina Purvis but she took a shine to Virginia O'Kane who was dead glamorous so she wanted to be like her. When she died, Tina took her name as some kind of remembrance, if this makes any sense"  
For all Connie's experience of patients from all walks of life, all this was threatening to go over her head but she exercised her concentration and willingness to learn. After all, was this not her trademark throughout her life? "Darlene Cake who's black, ten feet high so you can't miss her, got 4 years for GBH for smashing a girl in the face with a pint glass. It ain't easy getting her accent at times"  
" Next to her is Kris, the blond dyke in a T shirt and trousers she was convicted for offing her father with a knife 'cause he was knocking her mother around for years. She's a bit touchy but if she trusts you, you've got nothing to worry about," put in Denny"  
"So she's got definite likes and dislikes," put in Connie." I can relate to that." "Next we have Bev and Phil, otherwise known as the Costa Cons who have got five years for flogging shares in dodgy companies on the Costa Brava. If you let them, they'll take your money. If you tell them you ain't interested, they'll stop bothering you. Bev's a dead good artist and did me a painting of my Shaz that's really ace while Phyl's good with her hands." "If you take a look at that blond tart with all the makeup and blue eyes, then that's Natalie Buxton." Julie Johnson muttered out of the side of her mouth at Connie but she declined to say any more. The conversation promptly dried up and Connie raised her eyebrows, not being able to understand why they weren't talking about her. She couldn't help noticing how the Julies and Denny were looking out of the corners of their eyes at each other.  
"So what is she in for?" Connie eventually enquired. "She's a nonce, innit." Denny said at last.  
"You do know what a nonce is, Connie?" Julie Johnson asked softly. "Me and Ju have kids on the outside and that's why we hate her guts. I wouldn't want any kid to fall into her hands and her rotten boyfriends' if you know what I mean"  
Connie's mouth hung open in shock. She had seen the victims of child abuse in her time of working in hospitals, but she had never come face to face with a perpetrator.  
"You think of all the women inside and what we've all done to land us here. Well, all of us think of a nonce as the lowest of the low. If Al weren't desperate and stupid enough to look for a slice off Buxton's racket, even she'd drop her." "When she first came here, she came over all dead innocent and helpless, her and her Olivia Newton- John looks. She tried to con us into believing that she'd been done for income tax fraud in running a language school. I got to admit, she could tell a good story only it all came out that it was all one big front for smuggling in underage kids and forcing them to sell themselves. They didn't exactly come in with a proper passport and that cow exploited them rotten because of it"  
"You can see why we don't even want to talk about what she's done," broke Denny into the intensity of feelings that emanated from the Julies. "Right now, she's muscled in on the drugs racket. She's a right psycho bitch. You've seen enough to know that she's stronger than she looks and you want to watch her."

There was a long pause while Connie took in everything that had been said to her. She needed time to take this all in. "It ain't just what you've done on the outside what matters, but what they're like on the inside. You got to know who you can trust and those who aren't worth shit." Denny continued in low-pitched tones.

Just then, the dark mood of the crowd was lightened when Dominic came into view.  
"Just who is that good looking guy?" breathed Connie, a smile at the corner of her lips.  
"Dominic McAllister. He's our favourite screw. He's a perfect gent. He buggered off to Greece for a while and broke all our hearts. He's back again. Tell you what, we'll do that song that we made up about him years ago, you remember Ju"  
Instantly, the two Julies cavorted around as they chanted their song, much to everyone's amusement.  
"Dominic, super dick, you're the one we'd love to lick." "It's nice to know I've got a fan club, ladies," came Dominic's amused response. He also remembered years ago how the Julies made him blush though he hated to admit it. He had somehow gained flexibility in dealing with that style of humour over the years.  
"You must be Connie Beauchamp. I want to let you know that I'm here to deal with any problems that normal relationships between prisoners and prison officers"  
"A pity," murmured Connie just loudly enough for everyone to hear, lowering the lashes over her violet eyes in his direction.  
"I only hope your stay here is brief and that it's trouble free," Dominic responded smoothly. "Thank you. I'm grateful to find decent people around." Dominic smiled briefly, noticing the fractional change in Connie's expression from flirtatiousness to genuine appreciation of him. He nodded and passed on his way and they all felt the better for this brief encounter.

Just then, Bev floated towards them, her hands held up almost in a prayer position while Phyl followed, her stylish yet practical fashion sense not a million miles away from Connie.  
"You must be the new girl. My name's Bev and my friend here is Phyl." Phyl came up and shook her hand while Bev continued.  
"A little bird told me that you're a surgeon. I don't want to bother you but I would be ever so grateful if you could check my pulse. It's my nerves you know. I can't tell you just how much I've suffered over the years"  
"It's her artistic temperament you know. She reads fortunes and does paintings," added Phyl in smooth persuasive tones, slightly huskier than Bev. Smiling, Connie moved over to do the one bit of medical work that she could do for a bit. It was a comedown from all the equipment and urgency of a busy cardio thoracic ward but it made her feel strangely useful. She dutifully measured Bev's pulse and pronounced her verdict to give her the reassurance that she was after. She could tell straight off that the two women were a natural double act.  
"I don't suppose you would be interested in having your fortune read. At a modest fee, of course"  
"I'm not superstitious but I tell you what. I'll give nearly free medical advice whenever you want it." Connie retorted with a blinding white smile, which made the Costa Cons respect her snappy riposte.  
"You come up for a late night g and t and make it totally free and I'll treat the rest of you if I get help for further supplies of gin." muttered Phyl out of the side of her mouth with all the surefooted negotiating skills of an Arab market trader.  
"With ice and lemon of course." Added Bev.  
Tina remained quiet, listening to all the other women chat away. She was content to listen but she joined in the collective grin of appreciation of the forthcoming treat. They started to sidle off one after the other to the Julie's large double cell.

Nikki was on her rounds at this time of the evening and was immensely pleased to see that the Julies, Denny, Tina and the Costas had adopted Connie. When she saw them start to move elsewhere, she suspected that something was happening that she was not supposed to know about. As Connie made her way to the Julies' room, Nikki called out to her.  
"I'm pleased that you're settling in, Connie. I can see that you're in good hands." "So far, so good, Nikki." Connie responded with a more confident smile than Nikki had seen earlier on.

Connie couldn't believe what she was seeing as everyone spread themselves around the Julies' very homelike cell and she found herself sitting between Denny and Tina as Phyl slid into the cell and whipped out her bottle of gin and Bev produced the necessary sliced lemon and tonic water. Connie couldn't stop the stray thought crossing her mind that this couldn't have happened on Darwin Ward but could happen in one of Her Majesty's Prisons. The atmosphere felt strangely like being in a story about some girl's boarding school. The two Costas dispensed generous measures of booze in the regulation blue plastic beakers. "Chin chin, everyone"  
"Chin bloody chin." Phyl and Bev intoned one after the other.  
When it came to Connie's turn, she took a sip of her drink and that fierce spirit tasted good to her as it did to her already giggling comparisons. That moment felt better than any drink she'd had at some grand reception. This was because she was amongst real companions in an environment where the artifices of polite conversation were stripped away. Connie lay back against the hard brick wall and felt one of the crowd in a way that she never really had done for a long while. "Is it really true that you're a top surgeon?" Tina asked.  
"I am, though I think I might be taking a bit of a vacation from that right now"  
All the other women knew better than to talk about Connie's trial. They all had had experiences of the justice system that did not allow them to expect miracles. "Well, since you're taking it easy for a bit, why not alleviate the crushing boredom of life by having a top up?"Phyl offered in her most theatrical tones. This gracious act bridged an uncomfortable pause very nicely and gave Connie another little lesson in the intricacies of prison life.  
"Do you think Nikki knows about this?" Connie asked anxiously.  
"Course she knows," Julie Saunders confidently pronounced. "Nothing misses her eye or Karen's either. After all, Nikki's been one of us"  
"It's just that she's got the sense to know when to turn a blind eye and when she needs to come down like a ton of bricks. It ain't favouritism either. It's just that she runs things her way and it works"  
"We ain't doing any harm, well not really"  
"Keep thinking that way, Tina." Denny tolerantly answered Tina's appealing naivety.  
Time went on but for once in the prisoners' lives, it ran too quickly and when Julie Saunders checked her watch, it was ten to eight.  
"Blimey, it's ten minutes to lockup, girls. We'd better get out there and sound normal." "If you don't mind, we'll slip the bottles back to my cell. I can't bear to be parted from them." Bev exclaimed. "All right, but for Gawd's sake, just watch it, mate"  
"Don't worry, an alcoholic always looks after her stash if it is the one thing in life that she does right"  
Bev's languid reply was belied by the rapidity with which she and Phyl hid the bottles and nipped out of the cell door.

It was a little later on when Connie lay beneath the thick sheets, quite unlike what she was used to but somehow she had achieved a temporary balance to her life, perhaps aided by the gin on a relatively empty stomach. Mercifully, her awareness of her life on the outside felt at one removed and it was probably as well. Her horrific first encounter with the prison system had been mellowed by illicit gin and, most of all, such a cross section of society that she never knew existed. She was indeed the new girl in town and she had to learn as quickly as never before what she needed to know to survive. She looked sideways at her CD alarm clock and her wardrobe and chest of drawers. Some tiny part of her home was with her. Was this the answer? The cell windows were open and she felt the faint summer breeze stir the air. "Night Connie, sweet dreams." A distant voice from below called "Yeah, stay safe, man"  
"We'll look after you." sang a third voice after Denny's distinctive tones.  
Connie got out of bed. She felt a little self conscious in talking to an invisible audience out of the window. Fortunately, years of working in the racket of a busy hospital had given her a carrying voice.  
"I'm not sure what to say but thank you for looking after me"  
She knew that her words would be carried to their destination on the night air. It helped make her feel less alone than she would otherwise have been. She was a survivor and maybe she would survive this crisis in her life. 


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Betaed by Jen. 

Part Seven

On the Wednesday morning, George drove the now very familiar path to HMP Larkhall. It occurred to her on the way, that this prison had either been the set or at the very least contained some of the characters of the last couple of years of her life. Whilst she hadn't ever been an actual inmate there, she had known, and on the one occasion intimately, some of the people whose lives did revolve around it. But today's visit was of a different kind altogether. Well, perhaps it wasn't, but it certainly felt like this. Connie Beauchamp was the last person George had expected to find behind Larkhall's bars, and it was up to her, the devious and loud-mouthed George Channing, to get Connie out of the mess she now found herself in. When she parked her car and closed and locked the door, George glanced up at the row upon row of tiny barred windows, almost as though she was trying to work out which one was the window of Connie's cell. But this was stupid, she told herself sternly, because Connie wasn't her lover, and she wouldn't be fighting in any way covertly for her release. 

"Good to see you, George," Nikki greeted her at the gate lodge. "I'd rather it were in better circumstances," George replied, handing over her handbag to be searched. "You know what I mean," Said Nikki. "How is Connie this morning?" "She didn't appear to be winding up Sylvia this morning," Nikki replied as they walked through the first set of gates. "But that's more than I can say for yesterday." "Ah," George said with understanding. "Connie does have a way with words." "Yeah," Nikki said with a smirk. "So does Sylvia, but I think Connie gave her fairly short shrift." She led George along the narrow, dingy corridors, and through several sets of barred, metal gates. When they reached the corridor that contained the legal visit interview rooms, George saw that Gina and Sylvia had taken up residence to keep an eye on several inmates who were sequestered in bare little rooms, awaiting visits from their lawyers. 

"Oh look," Sylvia said when George and Nikki reached them. "It's the governor's old flame. What a surprise. Come to try and free another worthless con, have you?" She addressed this last comment to George herself. "Don't, refer to my client, as a con," George told her stonily. "She is worth a hundred of you any day." "Well it's not me that's been accused of murdering one of my patients, now is it," Sylvia threw back just as icily. As George took a breath to continue this argument, Gina stepped in. "Leave it, George," She told her calmly. "You're not going to win this one. Sylvia's had as long as she reckons she's been in the service to cultivate that particular grudge." "Yes, you're right," George appeared to concede. "I didn't come here to waste my time tangling with the lower orders." "Jesus," Said Gina with a laugh. "You're both as bad as each other." 

When George entered the interview room, Connie was seated at the bare wooden table, staring at the opposite wall, and looking thoroughly tired and strung out. She didn't look her usual professionally attired self, which made George feel a wave of sympathy for her. Moving to sit in the chair opposite her, George watched as Connie's eyes moved to take in George's face, as though to assure herself that George was really there. "How are you?" George asked, when it became obvious that Connie wasn't about to break the rather tense silence. "I'm tired, angry and frustrated," Connie told her. "Which is hardly surprising," George replied quietly. "Can you tell me what happened?" "I can't tell you much more than Ric probably did yesterday," Said Connie defeatedly. "All I know is that I operated on Angela Masters to repair an atrial septal defect, which basically means a hole in the heart. She was born with this condition, but like many sufferers of this defect, she didn't discover she had it until her mid thirties. The operation went as expected, with no undue complications. We put her into side room one of the high dependency unit on Darwin, which again was nothing out of the ordinary after such a major operation. She had woken up, and all appeared to be going well. Then, on the second day after I operated on her, she died, suddenly and with absolutely no apparent cause. They did a post-mortem, which is the usual procedure for an unexplained death, but because they used an aged, incompetent fool to carry it out, there was still no cause of death discovered. I know no more than that." Connie suddenly looked defeated, as though her telling of the events that had led her to be in this hell hole had thoroughly taken away any inner strength she had left. George watched the progression of feelings in Connie's face, seeing that she had to be Connie's rock now, from now and until her trial. "George, how do I get out of here?" Connie asked in a much smaller voice, as she gradually began to lose the iron grip on her emotions. "You don't," George told her quietly. "Not until all this is over, and that might not be for months." "Oh fantastic," Connie replied bitterly. "So I just stay here to rot and give up the idea of ever seeing my hospital again?" "No, you don't!" George told her firmly, taking Connie's hands in hers and thumping them down on the table as she spoke. "No one is going to give up on you, least of all me. You have everything to fight for because you know and I know, and several other people know that you did not kill that patient. Is that clear?" "What makes you so sure?" Connie asked, wanting to test George's level of real certainty. "When I was looking into just about everything I could discover about you, before Barbara's trial, everyone I asked, and every record I could lay my hands on, told me of a woman who has devoted the vast majority of her life to saving that of others. I discovered that whilst you are married, you lead a fairly unsatisfactory life when it comes to the time you spend away from your patients. Connie, your patients' lives come far and above your own, and I think they always have done. That's why I know that you didn't kill Angela Masters, because you certainly had nothing to gain by doing it, and because it wouldn't have even entered your head to do so." "I just feel so helpless," Connie said in a tight little voice that made George give her hands a squeeze. "I know," She replied, "And for the moment, that isn't going to get any better. But..." She stopped as Gina popped her head around the door. "George, I'm making some coffee, do you want some?" "Yes please, Gina," George replied, inwardly cursing the other woman's timing. "Do you want anything, Connie?" Gina asked her kindly. "Some iced water would be nice, thank you," Connie replied. 

When Gina had gone, George said, "Do you remember, back in March, that day you came to see me when I was in hospital, and I shouted at you?" "I doubt I'll ever forget it," Connie said with a small smile. "I took everything I was feeling out on you, partly because you were there, and partly because you encouraged me to do so. You allowed me to do that because you were doing your job. Well, now it's the other way round, because you need to trust me to do mine, and if you ever find that all you need is a good rant at the world in general, then that's what I'm here for." Connie regarded her thoughtfully in the resulting silence, privately thinking that this time it was George going far and above the call of duty. "I didn't make you talk to me just because of my job," She said quietly. "No, I know you didn't," George agreed with her, realising that this wasn't just a conversation between a lawyer and her client, or come to that, a surgeon and a patient. This conversation, this case in fact, was being fought by two people who were treading the first steps of true, sincere friendship. 

When Gina appeared with George's coffee and Connie's water, the tension in the atmosphere seemed to lessen. "You're a bit of a legend in here, you know," Connie said once Gina had gone. "Really?" George asked with a laugh. "Oh yes," Connie assured her. "It was Denny and the Julies who recommended you." "Once when I spent a couple of hours on G wing one Friday evening, Denny accorded me the title of Posh bitch." "I believe I've taken over that title," Said Connie with a smile. "That was when I was still involved with Karen," George said almost wistfully. "Yes, so I've heard," Connie replied thoughtfully. 

"Now," George said, getting them back to the issue in hand. "You need to know what I've accomplished so far. As I do know the counsel for the prosecution, I have managed to strike something of a deal with him. As the original post-mortem was so inconclusive, there is going to be another attempt. Now, as the prosecution, in other words the police, have already done their own investigation of the crime scene itself, I have persuaded Brian Cantwell, to allow the defence the first real crack at the post-mortem, since the original one is to be discarded." "I'm not going to ask how you managed that," Connie replied, sounding clearly impressed. "I take it you remember Dr. Kay Scarpetta?" "Of course." "Well, I've asked her to come over as soon as possible to do our post-mortem." "Well, if anyone can find the answers she can," Connie replied philosophically. "Someone you don't know," George continued. "Is her police colleague Captain Marino. Kay suggested that she bring him with her, to go over the crime scene for the defence." "You really have explored every avenue," Said Connie in slight amazement. "If I'm going to do a thing well," George said without any hesitation. "I go all out to do it properly." "So I see," Connie agreed with her. 

As George took a breath to continue their conversation, all the colour seemed to drain from Connie's face. "Are you all right?" George asked in concern. "No," Connie replied, getting to her feet and making for the door. Once in the corridor, she demanded to know where the nearest ladies' was. Taking one look at Connie's face, Gina gestured down the corridor. "Last door on the left," She said as Connie walked off in that direction. "What's wrong with her?" Sylvia asked disinterestedly, looking up at George as she stood in the doorway of the room she and Connie had been using. "I'm not sure," George replied a little worriedly. "It's probably the disgusting food you insist on serving these days." "Well, she'll have plenty of time to get used to that," Sylvia replied with a frown. 

Leaving Sylvia in mid chunter, George walked down the corridor after Connie. Pushing the door open, she found Connie stood at one of the washbasins splashing her face and rinsing her mouth out with cold water. She looked incredibly pale, as though she had just lost any stomach contents she might have had. "How do you feel?" She asked when Connie turned to look at her. "As though I've just confirmed that I am a few weeks pregnant," Connie replied dully, her face just for a moment betraying the fear and uncertainty she was feeling. "Was it my coffee that did it?" George asked, neither looking nor sounding surprised at Connie's statement. "Why do you ask?" "Because coffee always used to do that to me when I was pregnant with my daughter." Connie could barely raise a smile. "Come on," George told her gently. "I'm going to come with you back to the wing." "Will they let you?" Connie asked, deeply touched by George's intention. "Just let them try and stop me," She promised, tucking Connie's arm through hers and walking back out into the corridor. 

When they reached Gina and Sylvia, George spoke directly to Gina, ignoring Sylvia's presence altogether. "Who do I ask for permission to escort Mrs. Beauchamp back to her cell?" "Nikki," Gina told her succinctly, seeing that only the governing personnel might be able to say no to her. Unclipping her radio from her belt, Gina asked Nikki if she would come down to the legal visits rooms for a moment. "Being as thick with madam as I know you are," Put in Sylvia nastily. "I'm sure your request will be granted, mores the pity." 

When Nikki arrived, she took in the scene with a practised glance. "I would like to accompany Connie back to her cell," George explained. "She feels somewhat unwell and our conversation is not yet over." Nikki appeared to think about this for a moment. "I don't see why not," She said eventually. Then, looking at Connie more closely, she asked, "Do you need a doctor?" On realising to whom she was speaking, she said, "Sorry, force of habit." Giving her a slight smile, Connie said that no thank you, she didn't require a doctor. George and Connie followed Nikki as she led them through a succession of gates, finally reaching those of G wing. 

As they arrived on the wing, they saw Julie Saunders giving the association area a thorough clean. Placing the mop back in the bucket of hot, soapy water, Julie came over to them. "Hiya darlin'," She said to George. "How're things?" "Fine thank you, Julie," George replied, giving her a smile. Julie had dragged her out of the depths of despair last March, did she but know it. "Could you make Connie a cup of tea and bring it up to her cell?" "No problem," Julie replied, happy to help anyone in need. "Are you all right, love?" She asked Connie. "You don't look so good." "I've been better," Connie admitted with a shrug. "I hope it ain't my cooking'," Julie said, in the sure knowledge that it couldn't be. 

They moved away, and followed Nikki up the metal stairs, waiting as she unlocked the door to Connie's cell. "I'll leave the door ajar," Nikki told George. "And I'll be downstairs in the officers' room when you're ready." "Thank you," George told her sincerely. "This is much appreciated." When Nikki had gone, Connie flopped back on the bed and George took the straight-backed wooden chair. George glanced around the tiny space, taking in Connie's neat belongings that seemed slightly incongruous in the drab concrete box that had seen nothing but pain and depression in its time. They were silent, neither of them knowing quite what to say. But the tension was successfully broken when Julie arrived with Connie's tea. "I nicked one of Miss Geeson's peppermint teas while there was no one in the officers' room," She told them almost proudly. "That'll do you far more good than normal tea." "Thanks, Julie," Connie said gratefully, taking the plastic cup from her. "Any time," Julie said as she backed out of the cell door. "I'll see you later." 

Reaching for her lighter and cigarettes which were on the chest of drawers beside her bed, Connie attempted to light one, her hand shaking so much that she couldn't direct the flame. Taking the lighter from her, George lit the cigarette for her. Taking a deep drag, Connie asked, "What should I do?" "That's not something I can answer for you, Connie," George said quietly. "That's one of the few decisions in this place that does rest entirely with you." "I was on the pill for fuck's sake," Connie exclaimed bitterly. "It's not infallible," George replied reasonably. "That's what happened to me, and it was just as much of a shock as I expect it is to you." "Ric's already got nine," Connie said almost dismally. "It's not as though he's going to want any more." "You don't know that," George tried to convince her. "Jesus," Connie said disgustedly. "I don't even know if I want it." "Connie," George said, trying to calm her down a little. "You don't need to decide anything, not yet, and trying to visualise every possible scenario isn't going to help. Give yourself time to let it sink in." "When you discovered that you were pregnant," Connie said into the resulting silence. "What made you keep it?" "The fact that I knew beyond all reasonable doubt, just how much John wanted a child. It was the one thing he had always dreamed of, and I couldn't have taken that away from him, no matter how uncertain about it I was myself." George had said this with such certainty, such a lack of hesitation, that it brought brief tears to Connie's eyes. "You're a hell of a lot more selfless than I am ever likely to be," Connie said with a self-deprecating smile. "I wish I could agree with you," George replied, thinking of all the heartache that had been in store for both John and herself once Charlie had been born. 

They talked for a little while longer, but George could see that Connie was incredibly tired. "Sleep is the best cure for morning sickness," She said, getting to her feet and preparing to go. "Failing that, ginger ale sometimes works. I'll bring you some on my next visit." "So, what happens now?" Connie asked. "I'll make arrangements for Kay and Captain Marino to come over. Kay will do the post-mortem and Captain Marino will examine the crime scene. Once those things are accomplished, I'll bring them both to see you and we'll go from there." "Thank you, for everything you're doing," Connie said wholeheartedly, knowing that she wouldn't have even managed to get this far without her warm and comforting though highly professional presence. 

As George left Connie's cell and walked towards the set of metal stairs, she saw Denny coming up them. "Hey, long time no see, man," Denny greeted her with a broad smile. "I've just got back from the garden and wanted to see how Connie was." "She's not feeling very well," George told her evasively. "It's great that you're her lawyer," Denny said enthusiastically. "In this place you need looking after as much on the outside as you do on the inside." "And is she being looked after on the inside?" George asked conversationally. "Too right," Said Denny, straightening her back and flexing her numerous muscles. "I stopped Natalie Buxton and Al McKenzie decrutching her yesterday." George paled at the mental image this afforded her. "Connie didn't tell me about that," She said, wanting Denny to elaborate. "Yeah, well, she's probably got better things to think about, innit," Denny replied matter-of-factly. Thinking on her feet, George said, "Denny, will you do something for me?" "Sure," Denny replied, without waiting to see precisely what the favour might be. "Please will you keep an eye on Connie for me? I would like to know that someone is keeping an eye out for her." "I'll do my best, innit," Denny promised faithfully. "Consider these as a down payment," George told her, handing over the packet of cigarettes that had been in her pocket. "Cheers, man," Denny replied with a broad smile, taking the cigarettes and swiftly pocketing them before George could change her mind. As George descended the metal stairs and crossed the wing towards where Nikki was standing talking to the two Julies, Denny moved to take up residence outside Connie's cell, leaning on the rail and surveying the association area for any possible threat. She took out George's cigarettes and lit one, giving George a wave as she followed Nikki out of the gate. 


	8. Chapter 8

Part Eight 

Tricia's immediate resolution to help Connie was triggered from memories of Connie's softer side. When her old friend, Maggie was in St Mary's, suffering from the late stages of a terminal cancer, Connie had let her wheel Maggie out into the fresh snowy air. What's more, she provided a bottle of champagne and two glasses. Tricia had been horrified to see Connie being led away in such a fashion after being arrested. She hadn't always seen eye to eye with Connie. Any past incidents were all swept away by Tricia's outrage at the way the arrest took place and her undying belief in Connie's professionalism.

It wasn't till later on the fateful Tuesday that Tricia looked down one of the long corridors and spotted Donna and Mickie in the distance. She hailed them with her carrying voice and rapidly strode up to them.  
"I can't believe what's happened." Mickie exclaimed. The words sounded trite but the shock of what her eyes had seen made it impossible to properly voice her feelings. For once, Donna was lost for words.  
"I'm going to visit Connie Beauchamp at the prison. I'll take some cigarettes but we ought to take her something, like flowers or something"  
The other two women responded to the first bright idea that they had heard all day. The gears inside Donna's mind started to mesh together and words shaped themselves automatically. She was always one for the big ideas, and this one wasn't too bad by her standards.  
"What about a big card signed by everyone and a picture of us all on the front, something to show that we're with her," Donna suggested brightly.  
It was on the tip of Mickie's tongue to say that perhaps Connie might not want to be reminded of some of Donna's antics but decided against that on second thoughts. If Donna had been welcome company in some of Mickie's crises, how much more welcome would she be to Connie right now? "Who's handy with a camera"  
"What about Will? He must have a camera what with his kids and all. Leave it to me, I have ways of persuading him."

It worked out as Donna had forecasted. At first Will whinged and complained with that world weary sigh of the man who had worked fifteen hours and was asked to make a cup of tea but Donna batted her eyelids at him and made him feel a complete heel if he didn't cooperate. Eventually, Will saw the advantages of being the man of the moment without whose technical skills the project wouldn't go ahead. He made endless suggestions to the assembled crowd to form a tidy crowd in true parade ground fashion and clicked off several pictures. Carlos chipped in by copying a selection of Connie's favourite country songs onto a CD. All in all, the whole enterprise generated a gratifying collective effort by Connie's work colleagues, which Tricia was proud of. Finally, she nipped out in her lunch break to get the photos printed at Boots in their 1 hour developing scheme and Donna's careful eye pasted the picture square in the middle of the front page of the card. Finally, Tricia made up a little parcel by including the CD, a packet of cigarettes from Donna and a couple of bars of chocolate from Mickie.

Tricia had never thought too much of the reality of prisons outside the rare occasion that a prison officer was admitted to their hospital. She saw it through the distancing and abbreviating effect of headline news or what was on the TV. It was just another institution, and she carried her own self-assurance born of the job that she had held down. She didn't even see that for what it was, until she presented herself at the forbiddingly high castle like walls and solid wooden door. 

"God, the place looks like Alcatraz," she exclaimed to herself as she edged nearer the rectangular wooden door set inside the massive gates.  
"Ah well, nothing ventured, nothing gained"  
With a dazzling smile, she greeted the man on the gate who was like every gateman she'd ever seen and was therefore comforting. She was just about to set off for her destination when her progress was stopped.  
"Excuse me but are you taking a parcel in with you"  
"So what if I am"  
"We have to be very careful as a general rule about what could be smuggled into prisons, drugs for instance. I know that you seem very respectable but I have to operate the same rule for everyone. I must insist that you open the parcel for inspection or the visit can't go ahead.………I'm sure that you have to take reasonable security precautions at your hospital"  
Tricia was about to protest when the man's reasonable manner connected with her. After all, the packaging wasn't essential but the contents were. The man very carefully took the parcel apart, duly searched the contents and returned it to her.  
"Sorry about this, madam, but you can't be too careful. You need to cross the courtyard and follow the signs telling you which way to go"  
She followed his instructions and made her way to the visitor's room, and adjusted herself to being frisked by the polite woman with long fair hair. After hanging around in the smoky anteroom, the doors opened and Tricia's eyes and ears were assaulted by the bedlam of noise, and too many people rushing around too small a space. It took Tricia to get her bearings and her gaze picked out Connie, wearing a highly unflattering red bib. Close to her, a scowling, forbidding woman stood with the manner of owning the place.

"You will all take your places immediately and you will remain in your seats until I tell you when visiting time is over. If any prisoner finds that their visitor has not turned up, you will take your place on the benches at the back of the room, until a prison officer takes you back to your cell. Under no circumstances will you make physical contact in any way- that means touching or kissing"  
"Right little Hitler." Tricia muttered under her breath particularly at the expression of distaste at Bodybag's final words. This hectoring woman was a total contrast to the respect shown by the gateman. Unfortunately, she made her way over to Connie as quickly as Tricia did and showed every signs of muscling in on her visit. That irritated Tricia as the personal visit was quite public enough already.

"Have you had proper authorization to bring these items in with you? They might contain drugs for all I know"  
"Would I be here if it hadn't"  
Bodybag's scowl deepened as Tricia's snappy comeback had brushed her aside. Tricia could almost hear the other woman's mind figure out how next to be officially awkward.  
"I suppose you've come to visit the con who's supposed to save lives instead of take them," sniffed Bodybag contemptuously.  
Tricia took fire at once, as this was someone else being attacked. Her self-belief wasn't easily suppressed and, to her, this was now just another institution.  
"You know, I remember being taught that you're innocent until proved guilty"  
"We see all kinds here and it's amazing just how many of them protest their innocence until they come to trial. It's funny how many of them end up here"  
"And I work long hours in hospital trying to save lives. We see all kinds of people who need my kind of help, including prison officers I'll have you know. I remember years ago looking after one of yours who was stabbed in the stomach by a broken bottle. I can tell you he was grateful for our sort of care even if you aren't. There are a lot of us doing a very important job, most of all Connie Beauchamp. She's one of the finest cardio thoracic surgeons and I guarantee that she'll soon be out of here while you're still sitting around drinking endless cups of tea until you draw your pension"  
Bodybag blushed a deep colour of red as Tricia had hit the mark closer than she knew. She saw out of the corner of her eye, Selena grinning broadly at the encounter. In one sense Connie could believe what her eyes and ears were telling her as Tricia's fiery response wasn't new to her. What really touched her was the way that Tricia sprang so readily to her defence. Truly, it was only now at her lowest moments could she see how everyone really felt about her.  
"We wanted to give you a little parcel from everyone on Darwin Ward but I couldn't get in without it being opened."

Connie's eyes opened wide and the expression on her face was one of pure gratitude and affection. Tricia noticed it straightaway and it set the seal on how the conversation progressed. She didn't ask as many questions of how St. Mary's hospital was going on. She realized that this would hurt Connie too much. They talked more of the invisible support that she was getting over the airwaves that she might not be able to feel but that she knew existed. Instead, Connie talked brightly of the little commonplace matters of prison life, of Denny, of the Julies some of which went right past Tricia. It was her bright, warm motherly smile that Connie clung to without any contact of hands and underneath, Tricia could sense how low her spirits were and how fragile her self esteem was, more fragile than Tricia could imagine from such a dominant, powerful, masterful woman. After all, her place in the world owed so much for the position she had worked so hard from. Tricia felt strongly that she was in a swimming bath with all sorts of extraneous sounds trying to intrude from other tables and other visitors. It was Connie's voice and physical presence that locked her into the little world that they shared amongst all the other people surrounding them. Time was too short and the announcement that it was time for visitors to leave made Tricia aware that she was not the owner of her destiny any more than Connie was. Outside the prison gates, lay her route back to normality. What got to her that this route was barred for the time being to Connie and that she wouldn't be returning to St. Mary's tomorrow as she was fondly starting to imagine might be the case. It was all delusion. She gave Connie a quick kiss and hug and looked over Connie's shoulder to train her glare at Bodybag, defying her to intrude on their space. At the end of the day, she had to turn her back on Connie as the other woman had to do, likewise.

Tears forced themselves into Connie's eyes as she returned to her cell. She stuck the card and photograph pride of place on the brown board to make it feel more personal. She looked carefully at each face on the photograph as if to ensure that each person and her associated memories wouldn't disappear. After a long while, she turned her attention to each of the assorted squiggles on the card itself. She resolved to savour the chocolate and the cigarettes till later on when she needed them and finally put on her precious CD, wondering what surprises there were in store for her. She lay sideways on her bunk as she waited in anticipation, which way her mood might be pulled by whatever song came uppermost.

Sure enough, that familiar lazy twang guitar intro into the song segued into that classic male country voice, singing his blues at a time when Connie had enough blues raining down outside her window, or rather cell. 

"I thought that some time in the sun Would help me get over you I could tell from day one That this is the place meant for two Now here I sit on the beach Watching the tide ebb and flow I booked my room for a week Now I'm ready to go I'm in a tropical depression I've got the blue water blues Can't shake this loving obsession Can't stand the sand in my shoes." It had never occurred to her before as she lay on her bunk that the narrator had the time and opportunity where his life would take him. It was just that he didn't know the answer. She was starting to wonder just how long she would be incarcerated. The hardest thing to bear was that all her decisions were made for her. That ran against her very nature as she was long used to being in control over her destiny. She lay on her side and looked sideways to where the photograph remained in view, where she can see Donna, Mickie, Tricia, Ric, Tom, Owen, and Carlos all grouped together and smiling in support of her. She would need more help than she ever had before in her life as did the singer from the world around him, as they were both sunken deep into a state of lethargy. She let the music play on and moved not a muscle.

It was late in the afternoon when Karen came to do her rounds, and got to reach G wing. It was her way of reassuring herself as much as those for whom she had responsibilities that all was as well with the world, bearing in mind it was prison. Everywhere was quiet as she walked up onto the 3s, and heard quiet music coming from what she judged to be Connie's cell. On impulse, she trod very quietly to the cell and put her head round the cell door. Connie was stretched full length on the bunk bed, her arm bent almost protectively half way hiding her face and, as far as she could see, her eyelashes resting on her cheeks. She may have been asleep or then again she might not be. It spelt such an exhaustion of spirit, which affected her very strongly. She remembered so clearly the very energetic and combative woman only six short months ago at Barbara's trial and prayed that the other woman would regain that pronounced fighting streak in her. She was going to need it. 


	9. Chapter 9

Part Nine

I felt incredibly elated by the events over the last few days as I watched events unfold. It has been something that I have dreamed of for so long. Of course, I could never have pulled it off if I hadn't found that the art of concealment was so easy. 

That infernal woman had inflicted cruelties so casually on so many people that I resolved that someone had to take her out of the way. She had to be punished appropriately as she punished so many others. I could not guarantee that I would be around when she was arrested but it was fortunate that I happened to be there. What I am certain of is that she will sit and stew in prison a long while before being tried and found guilty. She has to be guilty, as I have arranged the evidence that she cannot be found other than guilty. She will not bear the humiliation of a public trial and a very long sentence in prison would serve her right. The only question is how long she would be sentenced for but even on her discharge, she would have no more chance of becoming a surgeon again than I would have in flying to the Moon.

The right opportunity presented itself and I was able to take advantage of the situation. Once that was set up, it was all a matter of time of watching and waiting. I had to be patient and wait for the events that I placed in the hands of the police would run their course and that the police would draw the conclusions that I had set up for them. It is the easiest thing in the world for the person, who has enough expertise to arrange the evidence into the perfect pattern. That way, no one would ever suspect anything untoward. Working on the inside gave me invaluable opportunities to set everything up and everything was possible. I remember almost felt pity for her as she wondered exactly how come that patient died so unaccountably.

I must confess that I had a few qualms at prematurely easing Angela Masters out of her life but it was one of those unfortunate necessities. I am absolutely sure in my own mind that I have done the right thing and St. Mary's hospital will be the better for it. After all, no one is indispensable and even that woman cannot brainwash everyone that she is the exception. Talent will emerge and I am sure that the gap will be adequately filled. Little did that infernal woman know as she went about her business the fate that I had in store for her. As she continued in her arrogant fashion, little did she know that her days were numbered. She really did act as if she ruled the earth and such power mad women are dangerous. It was lucky that I was able to conceal my feelings about what I really feel about her. It was almost funny how only I saw the police approaching her while she carried on in that infuriatingly self-important way that I have come to loathe and detest for so long. For someone who prides herself in her skills in handling office politics, she never saw it coming. 

Of course, I had to make the right sounds as everyone else was utterly sentimental in offering her misplaced sympathy. If I had hung back, it would have looked suspicious. What I found hardest was in keeping a straight face as she was led out of the hospital doors, with the police either side of her. What I hadn't bargained for was the inconvenience of so many areas of St, Mary's being taped off and police crawling all over the place, turning everything upside down. I might have felt apprehensive if I wasn't sure that I had done such a good job in concealing the truth. They are amateurs when it comes to medical matters and I had worked everything out in advance to the last detail.

I understand from gossip that she was held overnight at the police station and is being held on remand at Larkhall Prison. That will be a comedown in the world and will knock a bit of that glamour off her. She'll have to rough it with all kinds of criminals who won't take kindly to her airs and graces. While I shouldn't sound too inquisitive as to how she is going on, the right measure of interest and concern will be wholly appropriate. It will be useful to casually keep up to date with the latest information. Everyone is being most satisfactorily forthcoming and it does make matters so much easier.

All I have to do is watch and wait. 


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Betaed by Jen. 

Part Ten

On the Thursday morning, Connie made her way down to breakfast with the other prisoners, her meeting with George the previous day still uppermost in her mind. George had been so kind in bringing her back to the wing, and sitting with her whilst the knowledge of Connie's pregnancy began to sink in. Connie had been awake most of the night, going over and over the implications of her current condition. It wasn't even as though she and Ric had been careless during their occasional encounters. Connie had been on the pill for years, and had taken it as regularly as clockwork. So why in god's name had this happened to her? She couldn't get her mind away from the question of what would Ric say if and when she told him? But then again, why did she have to tell him? If she decided not to keep it, which was looking more and more likely by the hour, he wouldn't have to know. 

But as she joined the queue of women waiting at the servery for their breakfasts, another consideration reared its ugly head. The smell of cooking sausages and scrambled eggs was playing havoc with her senses. Dropping her plastic plate and mug down on the servery counter, she fled back to her cell, the aroma of grease making her stomach flip over in protest. Observing Connie leave in something of a hurry, Julie J said, "She don't look too good, does she." "No," Julie S agreed. "If I didn't know better, I'd say there might be another mum on the wing before too long." "Why not take her up some tea and toast," Julie J suggested. "See if she's all right." Armed with Connie's plate which contained two slices of very lightly buttered toast, and her plastic mug full of strong sweet tea, Julie S left the servery and made her way up the metal stairs. But she was stopped in her tracks by Sylvia. "Where are you going with that?" She demanded, eyeing the mug and plate with suspicion. "It's for Connie," Julie told her. "She isn't very well this morning." Appearing to think over this explanation, Sylvia said, "Oh go on. I haven't time to worry about her this morning." Then, as Julie continued on her way upstairs, Sylvia called out, "And tell Lady Muck that she can't expect breakfast in bed every morning." 

Quietly pushing open the door to Connie's cell, Julie found her leaning out of the tiny window, obviously in an effort to get some fresh air, with a cigarette held in a slightly shaking hand. "You all right, darlin'?" She asked, putting the mug and plate down on the virtually empty desk. "Not really," Connie replied, turning to face her. "You're in the club, aren't you?" Julie asked with a serious expression. "That's one way of putting it," Connie said with a slight smile at the corners of her mouth. "I've brought you some tea and toast," Julie told her, immediately getting back to practicalities. "You should try and eat something, even if it only comes back up afterwards. Then you should try and go back to sleep for a bit." "Was it really that obvious?" Connie asked, slightly amazed at the other woman's level of intuition. "Half of us in here are mums," Julie told her. "So someone would have worked it out eventually. Do the screws know?" "Not yet," Connie said after taking a sip of the hot strong tea. "But I suppose it's only a matter of time." 

Julie had left her, going back downstairs to her duties. Connie sat on the bed, alternately nibbling at the toast and sipping at the tea. These women were taking care of her, really looking out for her. Just how many of her colleagues at St. Mary's would do the same? Though this wasn't really fair, she admonished herself gently, because they were all trying to help her in any small way possible. Inwardly scolding herself for being quite so miserable, she put the mug and plate back on the desk, lay back down and soon drifted into an exhausted sleep. 

As Dr. Thomas Waugh traversed the long and winding corridors towards his Governor's office, he reflected that he couldn't possibly have a more understanding and practically minded employer. Karen Betts was that gratifying mixture of warm yet highly professional, with a clear understanding of what she could and could not do, yet with a natural instinct to occasionally bend the odd rule if the situation demanded it. She would always try to do the best by both her staff and her prisoners, something that was usually appreciated by staff and prisoners alike. Thomas occasionally found himself marvelling at the pressure that divided loyalties often placed on his governor, something that she appeared to take in her stride. As he let himself through the last gate to the admin wing, he came face to face with Nikki. Now here was a strange one. Nikki Wade had started out as a prisoner. She had then sought an appeal which she had won, and had then, after a few years, come into the prison service from the other side of the wire. Thomas had been a little sceptical about having an ex-con as a wing governor, but the experiment appeared to have been a resounding success. He found her very easy to work with, apart from some initial awkwardness over their mutual interest in Helen Stewart, or Wade as she was now. But Nikki had the same drive that Karen did, a very intense need to balance the requirements of both the staff who worked underneath them, as well as the prisoners in their care. 

"Nikki," Thomas said as he came face to face with her. "I'm glad I've seen you. I'm on my way to see Karen about one of your inmates. We might have something of a problem." "I was on my way to see her too," Nikki told him as they continued down the corridor. "Who is the problem concerning?" "Connie Beauchamp." "I might have known that she would give us more problems than the rest put together, so let's hope that we can sort it out." 

When Karen called Come in, she looked pleased to see the both of them. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" She said as they took seats in front of her desk. "Connie Beauchamp," Thomas said without preamble. "She's pregnant." "Oh marvellous," Said Nikki with a heavy sigh. "Her being a doctor, you might have thought she would be able to avoid things like that." "It happens to the best of us, Nikki," Karen replied, clearly sticking up for Connie. "And she isn't just a doctor. She's one of the finest heart surgeons in the country, something I would advise you not to forget." "It's not as though I've been allowed to forget it," Said Nikki a little defensively. "But we've dealt with pregnant women on the wings before, so I don't see what the problem is." "Someone like Connie Beauchamp," Replied Thomas reasonably. "Is far more likely to end up in a fight than your average prisoner, mainly because she will think that she can defend herself verbally, without giving any thought to the physical consequences of being far more intelligent than a good proportion of your inmates." "Just think about the likes of Natalie Buxton who goes in for the kill first and thinks about the consequences later." "Yeah okay," Said Nikki, reluctantly conceding that Karen and Thomas were probably right. "So what do we do?" "That all depends on what she wants to do about the pregnancy," Said Thomas. "I'll go and talk to her after we've finished here. There is the possibility that she doesn't even know yet." "Well, she didn't mention it during the induction interview we had with her," Put in Karen. "And you'd have thought that if she had known, she would have raised the issue then." "The point is," Continued Thomas. "You need to warn all your officers to be a little careful with her, should they be in a position where they have to haul her off down the block, for example." "And you also need to warn them to be even more on the look out for any possibly brewing trouble," Added Karen. "That's an officers' meeting I won't be looking forward to," Said Nikki dismally. "I can just imagine Sylvia saying that it wasn't her problem to be looking out for inmates who've got a bun in the oven, no matter how professionally special they are." "The joys of being a Wing Governor," Said Karen with remembered irritation, thinking that Nikki had had a fairly problem free time of it so far, compared to some of her own days in Nikki's job. 

Leaving Karen and Nikki to the rest of their meeting, Thomas made his way down to G wing, thinking that Connie would in all likelihood be confined to her cell. It was the time of morning lock up, and unless the inmates had either jobs or education classes to keep them occupied, they would be left in their cells until lunchtime. Connie had fallen back to sleep after Julie had brought her breakfast, but when the sound of a key turning in her door woke her, she hurriedly sat up and tried to rub the sleep from her eyes. Her face broke into something of a smile when she observed the very attractive man standing in her doorway. "Mrs. Beauchamp," He said, coming in and pushing the door too behind him. "I'm Dr. Thomas Waugh, the Senior Medical Officer for Larkhall." "Pleased to meet you," Said Connie, standing up and holding out her hand. "I like to make myself known to all new prisoners," Thomas replied, taking her hand and briefly shaking it. "Working in this place must be worse than A and E on a Saturday night," Connie said dryly. "It does get a bit fraught from time to time," Thomas agreed with her. "I wanted to talk to you." "Sit down," Connie invited. "Were you aware," Thomas asked as he took the hard wooden chair at her table. "That the urine sample that we take for a drugs test on your arrival, is also tested for pregnancy?" "I am now," Connie said with a shrug. "Did you know that you're pregnant?" Thomas asked, seeing Connie's mental barriers immediately going up. "I wasn't sure, not until yesterday," Connie told him. "The smell of my lawyer's coffee made me throw up." "I see," Thomas replied, accepting her explanation. "How far along do you think you are?" "No more than eight weeks, perhaps less." "Well, give it a few more weeks and we can do a scan, find out for sure." A brief look of fear came over Connie's face, as though his mention of a process in which she would actually be able to see her baby was terrifying to her. "Has this come as an enormous shock?" Thomas asked kindly, seeing the mental struggle going on behind her eyes. "You could say that," She replied dully, not wanting to appear too weak in front of this man. "It certainly wasn't planned, and now that I'm in here, even if it is only remand, I really don't know what I'm supposed to do about it." "Anything you decide to do, will be one hundred percent your decision. Nobody will try to push you in either direction, and if they do, they'll have me to answer to, not to mention your Governor. You have plenty of time to go into your options, such as they are. My immediate concern is how you feel right now." "Apart from the morning sickness and being extremely tired, I'm okay," Connie replied, wiping a hand across her face to dash away a few tears that had risen unbidden to her eyes. "Forgive me for saying this, but you don't look it," Thomas told her honestly. "Please don't be kind to me," Connie almost begged him, her slightly hoarse voice telling him all he needed to know. "To some extent, Connie," He said with a slight smile. "That's what I'm here for." "I suppose I can't help wondering what's going to happen next. I get arrested for something I didn't do and get put in here, then I discover I'm pregnant. Where's the third disaster?" "Hopefully there won't be one," Thomas replied, trying his best to sound optimistic in the face of her distress. "Oh, don't you believe it," Connie told him bitterly. "There's sure to be something else on its way, something else I can't control." 

They talked a little while longer, with Thomas trying to get her off the subject of either her incarceration or her pregnancy. "I might learn something from you while you're in here," he said thoughtfully, thinking that he could probably learn an awful lot from her given the chance. "I'm terrified of getting rusty," She admitted gloomily. "You won't," he told her confidently. "As long as everything goes to plan, you'll be back wielding a scalpel before too long." "Let's hope you're right," Connie replied, her tone holding no confidence in this outcome whatsoever. "Oh, come on," Thomas said with an encouraging smile. "Your reputation for having an everlasting amount of fighting spirit precedes you." "I won't ask where you heard that little tit bit of information," Connie told him dryly. Then an idea occurred to her. "When I get thoroughly bored of any reading material I can lay my hands on, would I be able to borrow some of the academic journals that are probably littering your office, but which you probably haven't got around to reading?" "Feel free," Thomas replied cheerfully. "There's a whole pile of them in the corner of my office, and it just keeps getting bigger." "Does the hospital wing really have an ultrasound machine?" Connie asked, referring back to what he'd said about being able to determine how far along her pregnancy was. "Oh yeah," He told her. "Not long after Karen Betts became Governing Governor, I talked her into getting one, seeing as we get an awful lot of women who are at different stages of pregnancy. I have to provide antenatal care for the women, and it seemed like a good idea." As he was walking out the door and preparing to lock her back in again, he said, "If you get really bored, you could always help me with the odd surgery or two." "Can you imagine Sylvia Hollamby's face if I did?" "You shouldn't incite a member of staff to mock their fellow officers," He told her with a broad grin on his face, thinking that Connie Beauchamp could certainly provide him with some like-minded company if nothing else. 

In the middle of Thursday afternoon, George was sitting at her desk, taking five minutes to drink a cup of coffee and smoke a cigarette. Her clients were proving to be particularly abrasive and demanding today, something she would thankfully leave at the end of the afternoon. Kay had sent her an e-mail, giving her details of hers and Marino's flight, saying that they would probably arrive late Friday afternoon England time. George had replied, saying that she would pick them up from Heathrow and that Kay and Marino could stay with her for the weekend, as long as Marino didn't mind too much. But when the phone call came, she was more than pleasantly surprised. "There's a Captain Marino calling from America," her secretary told her. "Shall I put him through?" "Yes," George replied, somewhat intrigued by what this call might be about. "George Channing," She said, picking up the phone. "Ms Channing, this is Pete Marino," He said, slightly wrong footed by George's clipped, aristocratic tone. "It's nice to finally talk to you," She replied, trying to put him at ease. "Same here," He agreed immediately. "The Doc's talked a lot about you. I gather you need our help, which is why we're coming to England tomorrow. The thing is, I had an idea which you might want to consider, and if you say yes, it'll take some organising." "Now you've got me really curious," George told him with a smile in her voice. "I talked it over with the Doc, and she said I should talk to you. What would you think about me questioning Connie Beauchamp herself, at her supposed crime scene?" George remained quiet for a moment or two, trying to take in the full ramifications of his suggestion. "The reason I think it would be a good idea," Marino continued, "Is that it will tell us one way or the other if she's guilty." "Or innocent," George put in automatically. "Yeah, that too," Marino conceded. "It's certainly novel," George told him ruefully. "Though I'm not sure how the prison service is going to take it." "So you're up for it?" "If we can pull it off, then yes. The prosecution would never have thought of this one, intelligent as he is. I'll do some phoning around, talk to a few people, and I'll let you know the outcome when I see you tomorrow. Will that suffice for the present?" "It sure will," Marino replied, the gratification practically oozing from his tone. Putting the phone down, George gazed thoughtfully up at the Munnings on her office wall. Could she pull this one off? She wasn't sure. But then it wasn't her who had to succeed on this point. It was Captain Pete Marino. Not only did he have to prove Connie's innocence to the three of them, George, Kay and himself, but he would eventually have to convince a jury of Connie's innocence, a nut that might be far harder to crack than he thought. 


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Article from Howard League for Penal Reform website

Part Eleven 

"Where a case involves a considerable amount of physical detail and matters of location, I am a firm believer in taking the enquiry to the scene of the alleged crime. I remember in the case of a murdered schoolgirl that it was extremely instructive for all parties to the trial to go to the murder scene in a wood and see the situation for what it was," observed John to George as they shared a passing cup of coffee in John's chambers late on Thursday afternoon. "Which, of course, means that you are freed from what constraints there are in a court of law and you can ask questions to your heart's content." Retorted George with a knowing look on her face.  
"I can't deny that the informality of the setting enabled me to get more easily to the heart of the matter." John defended himself stoutly and shamelessly. "It was all for the higher purpose of justice." "I'm sure that you performed splendidly, darling, but you'll never convince me that the opposing counsels ever got so much as a look in"  
"Well, perhaps not," conceded John," but I would still recommend it as a highly effective method of investigation. So much verbiage is wasted when all parties try to conjure up a picture of the crime with mere words. Just being there narrows down the facts of the case and eliminates everything from the imaginatively impossible to downright fabrication." "That sounds like something like those Sherlock Holmes stories that I'm sure that you still reread to this very day"  
"Well, why not, George?" came John's challenge to George's inevitable disagreement.  
"Why not indeed." Came her enigmatic reply.  
"You mean you agree with my sentiment"  
"I think I do, John. On reflection, your idea is extremely sensible"  
John sat back in his chair, his mouth open. Times were changing indeed. At one time, George would not have dreamed of accepting John's advice, either within marriage or outside it. At that moment, George stood up ,kissed John and reached for the coat that she had draped over the settee. She smiled kindly at John and made her exit. As soon as she had shut the door, her smile broadened into a wicked grin. John was not to know that Captain Marino from the other side of the Atlantic had advised her to do just that.

"Karen, I've got an idea about Connie's case but I wanted to ask your advice as it involves you. I want to know how possible it is for Connie to be allowed out under guard to St. Mary's hospital to be questioned at the scene of her supposed crime by a colleague of Kay Scarpetta's. I realize that I am asking a lot"  
Karen's mind whizzed at a rapid speed. It immediately struck her as such a brilliant idea that she wondered why it had never been suggested before. The trouble from her point of view was precisely because of this. There were no precedents. She knew all too well that the forest of regulations didn't prescribe for all the million and one situations that could arise in a prison and this was one of them. Just because there was nothing mentioned specifically, didn't mean that it was possible but didn't make it impossible either. So much was hedged about in terms of 'the good order of the running of the prison service' as exemplified by the old standby of every prison officer, Rule 43. She didn't feel certain enough of her ground to make a decision. "It's an excellent idea, George but I don't know if it is possible," she said at last.  
"How would you set about finding out the answer"  
"Let me think, George. I don't know the answer offhand but I'll check it out and phone you back."

After drawing a complete blank, Karen smoked a cigarette as she puzzled over the problem. She realized that it took a particular mindset to work through the further reaches of the regulations, someone like………Neil's. A broad smile creased Karen's face as she saw the way out though it did occur to her that if he were asked for an opinion, it might not necessarily be what she wanted to hear. She picked up the phone again.  
"Leave it with me, George. I have to go to area and find out the answer."

She zoomed over in no time at all to Area to the astonishingly quiet, antiseptic, rarefied heights of authority. Karen recognized the smart-suited woman who walked up to her from the opposite direction, scowled at her and turned smartly right into a room. Especially with her visitor's badge clipped to her jacket, it confirmed to Alison Warner that one of her hated liberal enemies was on the loose. She made her way to Grayling's spacious office and received a warm welcome.

"I'm really glad that you have found time to visit me Karen. I don't see enough of you these days. Naturally, I take it that this is a business call and not just pleasure"  
"Well, partly business"  
"What can I do for you, Karen?" "I have had a request from George who is handling the defence for a very unusual client. You will know that Connie Beauchamp, a top surgeon at St. Mary's hospital, is held on remand at Larkhall, accused of murdering a patient in her care"  
"I know about it"  
"George thinks that it will help her case that Captain Marino, an old friend of Kay Scarpetta's conducts an investigation at St. Mary's itself and that Connie should be there at the hospital. It will make it that much easier to get to the bottom of the matter for her to be there at the scene of the alleged crime and answer questions on the spot."

Grayling fell silent and leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. This was indeed a tricky problem.

"This is a hard request you are making, Karen. You know the counter arguments that spring to mind"  
"If one person held on remand awaiting trial is given such a privilege, then others will jump on the bandwagon," observed Karen.  
"And what is your answer to that"  
"Only that it is unusual for such a distinguished consultant to be accused of murder, Neil. More than that, this was supposed to have taken place in a busy hospital in the course of her daily work. This isn't some ordinary shooting or stabbing which wouldn't warrant the same attention placed on the circumstances of the alleged crime. It goes without saying that there would have to be stringent security measures and a cast iron promise that she will make no attempt to abscond. Where I am stuck is that I have hunted high and low and there is nothing in the regulations to say that such an undertaking can go ahead and nothing to say that it can't. That's why I've come to you for your advice"  
Grayling had to take his hat off to Karen's smooth talking. It was up to anything he had ever done in his time. More than that, she had done her homework. "You have clearly considered the matter very carefully, Karen, but have you asked Connie if she would want to go round her hospital? It might remind her about what she's missing on the outside"  
"I hadn't thought of that," came Karen's hasty answer as she strove for a line of reasoning to get past this very real point made by a man who certainly hadn't forgotten what running a prison was all about. In her eagerness to pursue the idea, she had overlooked this.  
"….as you know, George is very persuasive and it is clearly in Connie's interest to make the visit. If by any chance she isn't keen on the idea, well it falls at the first hurdle"  
Karen took a closer look at Grayling and noticed the sly grin on his face. "All right, Karen. Assuming that Connie is up for this, let me go through my computer and just check that there is nothing that I have overlooked."

Karen sat quietly in her chair while Grayling clicked on his computer and keenly worked his way through the sheer volume of policy documents. Eventually, he turned round and pronounced his verdict.  
"I can't find any guidance of any kind that we don't know of already. The real problem is if anything goes wrong as we both know very well. In the present political climate, that the 'hang them and flog them' gutter press will have a field day, not to mention their allies in high places. This absolutely must go without a hitch and you must have cast iron security"  
"I was proposing to accompany Connie myself. If I'm going to ensure security on such a highly sensitive visit, then I had better be the one who accompanies her. For the same reason it would be appropriate for Nikki to come along with me." "If both you and Nikki can be spared, I can live with your idea."

There was an unaccountable pause in the conversation until Karen filled the gap.  
"So, how is life treating you these days, Neil"  
"You mean the new Home Secretary?" Grayling counter questioned with a meaningful expression on his face. Karen nodded at Grayling to continue.  
"Naturally, he regards the Howard League for Penal Reform as being infested by die hard Bolsheviks or soft hearted liberals or both. In his eyes, they are fiercely dedicated to undermining his authority personally and dedicated to leaving the streets of the average Sun reader awash with hardened criminals on the loose. Just take a look at their latest press release and I'll tell you what kind of hell was let loose in high places," Grayling commented acerbically on the memories of the furore.

"Home Office's half-baked plans will create more victims of crime.

Statement by the Howard League for Penal Reform on the changes to the criminal justice system announced today by the Home Secretary: "Once again we see a Home Secretary responding to a crisis and not looking at the long term impacts his proposals will have for the criminal justice and penal systems. Locking more men, women and children up for longer cannot be considered a serious, measured response to protecting and reassuring the public. In the space of six months the Government appears to have completely reversed its position, from a sensible recognition that prison doesn't work to one where it decides to waste more taxpayers money by building more prisons. The best way to ease overcrowding in prison is not to build more prisons, which would themselves rapidly become as overcrowded as those they were built to relieve. The answer is to reduce the number of people being inappropriately sentenced to prison custody. Prison is supposed to be the ultimate sanction for those who pose a risk to the public. For the remainder, community sentences - which do actually cut crime - are the far better option, helping a person to take responsibility for their offence and put something back into the community. Neil Haughton talks about re-balancing the system in favour of victims, but when 67 of those released from prison are reconvicted within two years, his proposals will merely create further victims of crime."

"Sounds a reasonable point of view," commented Karen briefly. "Building your way out of the problem hasn't a ghost of a chance in succeeding. New prisons will fill up twice as fast as they can be built. Besides, where do you get trained prison officers from"  
"My point exactly but politicians don't think that way. They want civil servants to jump to it and they only expect the one question and that is, how high. Someone like Alison Warner will sing from the new hymn sheet without a second thought. As for me, I'm different." "How on earth have you managed to avoid being 'outed'? " Karen asked in wonder.  
"I have my methods, Karen," came Grayling's response accompanied by a twinkle in his eye though he declined to elaborate.  
'I'm lucky," sighed Grayling after a long pause. "I know that I have built up a good rapport with the prisons within my patch and if I tell you and other Governing Governors that improvements you want won't necessarily go to schedule, then you'll accept it with relatively good grace. That's only because you and your colleagues know that I'll fight like hell by fair means or foul to get at least half of what you guys need. Believe you me, I would never take your support for granted if it is the last thing I do."

Karen warmed to the man's declaration of commitment. She felt secure while he was in his job. When her thoughts focussed again on the article, she looked more closely at the date of the sudden change around in policy. It didn't seem to make any sense to her.  
"Why the change around in attitude in six months"  
"Can you guess when the new Home Secretary was appointed? The timing fits give or take a few weeks. Now you can see why I'm asking you to exercise great care in this request of yours"  
A shadow passed across Grayling's face, belying his devil may care attitude. He was perhaps having to fight harder to keep his position than he had been letting on.  
"How do you survive in such a place like this"  
"As you know, I am naturally extremely devious where I have to be and have my network of spies. I think I'm sticking around here just for awkwardness' sake." "You sound a bit like John, Neil." Karen smiled proudly at him.  
"He is one of my contacts, Karen. I dare say that his values have influenced my thinking. He is a mine of valuable information in giving input into the most important question of where home office policy and knowledge of the law intersect. None of my colleagues and superiors has access to that quality of expertise. It puts me five steps ahead of the game."

It was Grayling's roguish expression that Karen carried away with her as she headed on back to the relative simplicities of Larkhall. She wouldn't have his job for all the tea in China. 


	12. Chapter 12

Part Twelve

Normally, Nikki felt pretty enthusiastic about her job. The weekdays rolled into the weekends with Helen and then onwards to the future. She had been in the job for over a year, and had gradually built up her knowledge and resourcefulness. On reflection, she realized that she had been rather dismissive to Karen and Thomas about the revelation of Connie Beauchamp's pregnancy. She had been jumpy because this was an area of life where she felt at a disadvantage. Her own experience amounted to being around Crystal and Josh's children, but this was hardly 'hands on' experience. In every walk of life, her self-confidence stemmed from having been there, done that, and worn the T-shirt. She had possibly banged on about Sylvia to Karen and Thomas just because, by contrast, that bloody woman was at her strongest, having had three children of her own.

She eyed the prison officers as she stood in front of them, trying to look more confident than she felt inside.  
"Morning everyone. I have got one particular item I wanted to discuss with you and that is about how the newest inmate, Connie Beauchamp is settling down. I've one or two obvious concerns but, first of all, there's information about her that I feel that you all ought to know. She's pregnant"  
"Oh, marvellous. You would have thought that being a doctor that she'd know better"  
"You're jumping in with both feet as usual, Sylvia." Nikki shot back harshly, fully aware that her own initial reaction wasn't that dissimilar. "It doesn't help the situation." "What is there to talk about? She's unmarried and got a bun in the oven. Another one for the mothers and babies unit in nine months time"  
"We need to find out her attitude to it, possibly through her personal officer. The most important thing is that we all have a duty of care to all prisoners. We are not going to neglect that one, not on my watch especially when they're pregnant." As Nikki's tone of voice changed abruptly from strained patience to blazing anger at Bodybag, it brought back memories to the other woman of Helen Stewart giving her a dressing down over Carol Byatt. "That's not my only concern. From my observations, there's a real danger of her having a run in with Natalie Buxton and Al McKenzie. Connie Beauchamp is very well able to defend herself verbally but I doubt if she would be able to deal with either of them physically. Not only that, there's an obvious personality clash just waiting to happen with either of them. I don't need to spell it out. If a full scale incident blows up, there's an obvious danger of a miscarriage which would have to be reported." "I agree, Nikki. Connie is in danger of getting into real trouble without her knowing it. From her background, she's obviously not learned to be streetwise"  
Bodybag took in Dominic's concerned tone of voice and drew her own cynical conclusions. This wasn't just Saint Dominic, off on one of his pious crusades but history repeating itself. "Oh, so you fancy her. It's happened before with Zandra Plackett. I remember how you became her 'protector.'" "That's not the point, Sylvia. I saw that she could change for the better and I was right. What good have you ever done for any of the prisoners"  
Gina was taken aback by Sylvia's revelation and still more by Dominic's absence of a denial. She found it incredibly funny that the very proper Dominic confessed to such a misdemeanour. As her mother always said, it's the quiet ones that you have to watch.  
"Me, I'm here to lock them up." "Yeah? Like Denny Blood and Shaz Wiley? I heard all about how you let them have the keys to their cell and how they did a runner"  
Bodybag's smug reactionary statement sparked off Dominic's personal dig, and escalated a full-blown row between the two of them. Nikki, Selena, Paula and Colin Hedges stood on the sidelines, unable to get a word in edgeways until Bodybag's mouth opened in speechless rage.  
"This is all old history," Selena said at last. "Surely, we'll only move forward if we forget about fighting the battles of the past for the fiftieth time"  
This placed Nikki in a quandary. She had to admit that there was so much of the past that she couldn't forget. It had shaped who she was as a wing governor. She had vowed that she would keep faith with the past and she could see that Selena was relatively new and hadn't gone through the old days, the total shit, along with the moments of loyalty, caring and her own growing relationship with Helen. In that second, all eyes were upon her and, as had happened so many times before, they looked to her for leadership, except for Bodybag who scowled silently.  
"That's an interesting point, Selena," she said at last in slow deliberate tones, trying to buy time for the words she was blindly seeking. "The way I see it is this. At some point, you have to make your accommodation with the past. It's the lessons that you learn that matter, which you shouldn't forget. That way, you can move on. There isn't any use in letting old grievances fester without dealing with them one way or another. I shan't forget my experience from the other side where a pregnant woman miscarried where there was no need for it to happen. It just means that we take care to ensure that it doesn't happen again. All it takes is a bit of imagination and forethought"  
Nikki let her words hang in the air to gauge the reaction to them. "I'd like to hear from those who haven't had chance to express an opinion"  
"I keep seeing the way Buxton keeps glaring at her. She's trouble. What I don't get is Al McKenzie. You don't think that…….." Colin Hedges intervened.  
"Natalie Buxton's her dealer. That's the only reason for them being together." Selena intervened. "Al might fancy Natalie but that manipulating little cow will just exploit her"  
"I agree. We need to get in first"  
"I'm her personal officer. I'll talk to her," came Gina's short and sharp response after Paula's contribution.  
"Oh, I suppose she listens to every word you say, Gina." Bodybag sniffed. "Oh yeah, she does." "Well, at the end of the day, it's not my problem to be looking out for inmates who've got a bun in the oven, no matter how professionally special they think they are." "Sylvia, you are nothing if not predictable," Marvelled Nikki." They are the exact words that I thought you'd come out with. You aren't her personal officer but you have as much responsibility as all the other prison officers. You know the score. You muck in and look out for each other's prisoners. You get the help back that you put in. It's called teamwork. Anyway, it's time to move on to the next item on the agenda……"

Connie made her way down to breakfast and, with a real effort, negotiated her way delicately past the assorted cooking smells of breakfast at Larkhall. She just about held onto her stomach this time, and opted for a couple of slices of toast and a mug of lukewarm tea. The Costas and Denny all kept her company and tactfully let her slide back to her cell. As she made her way up the metal staircase, Denny glared out a warning to Natalie who came into view, who had glanced up the staircase with a vicious smile on her lips.  
"Still looking after your girlfriend then. Didn't think she was your type"  
"She's a mate of mine, Buxton. I told you before, just leave it out, man"  
"You might as well ask a rabid dog to be housetrained," murmured Phyl in a voice intending to be heard.  
"She'll learn. I'll teach her good," glowered Denny. The other woman could sense her unpopularity, so she flicked her hair back and went to get her servings of sausages and eggs from the very distant Julies who had seen and heard everything. Julie Saunders whacked down a particularly hard fried egg on Natalie's plate and a couple of overcooked sausages. "Natalie, in case you are thinking of starting anything, don't," Dominic said in a low, firm voice, as she passed back to the table where Al was waiting for her.  
"Why Mr. McAllister, as if I would"  
"We're watching you. You'd better believe it"  
The man's stony glare told Natalie that there was no future in 'having a laugh' with him especially as he was patently not attracted to her. She laughed and went on her way. Dominic watched her go, remembering that after Shell Dockley, he could easily handle this woman's obvious head games.

"Mind if I come in, Connie?" Gina asked as she stood in the open doorway having watched the verbal exchanges at breakfast at a distance. The other woman graciously gestured to her to come in. "I thought I'd drop in and see how you're getting on"  
"When I'm not feeling sick from cooking smells, I'm pretty bored"  
"Why don't you think of trying the local library? It ain't all romances. Nikki used to use the library years ago"  
"I might give it a try." Connie smiled. That was indeed a recommendation. The other woman paused and finally came out with the reason why she had called round, just as Connie had spotted.  
"I thought you ought to be the first to know that we've just had a meeting and all the prison officers have been told that you're pregnant and to generally watch out for you"  
Connie froze. A stubborn instinct remained in her to not want to be looked after. It made her sound horribly passive and dependent. It went against the grain.  
"I don't see why my private life should be the subject of office gossip. Besides, I can look after myself." "I mean also because you're expecting. Look here, Connie. This prison has far too many corners where you can get done over when you least expect it. I know you've got friends already but they can't be everywhere. Just take my word from someone who's been around this place a bit. Sure, you need to be strong for yourself but everyone needs all the help they can get"  
Connie respected the blunt and straightforward way that Gina put it. It reinforced that feeling that she had lessons to learn if she was going to survive around here.

"Why did you become a prison officer if you don't mind me asking"  
"That's a good question, Connie." Gina said reflectively in response to the impulsive question. She noted that Connie wasn't talking about the baby she was expecting so she wasn't going to intrude. "I suppose I stumbled into the job. I was a barmaid before I came here. I was never what you might call academically minded, not like Nikki. One day, I saw an advert in the local papers. 'Looking forward to a job with a future. This could be you.' It had all the usual crap about 'you, too could be running your own prison when you're 30.'I'd also heard that it was a secure job, good pension and after I got out of my teens, I got fed up of manhandling drunken idiots at closing time so I thought this was my chance to make something of myself." "And did you get what the advert promised, Gina"  
"You've got to be joking. I don't suppose any job advert really tells the truth." Came the laughing reply. Connie maintained a tactful silence. She had placed her share of adverts in her time but Gina was not to know that.  
"Mind you, I had my ups and downs before I got to where I am now. Both Karen and Nikki are decent so I'm comfortable to jog along as I am. When Nikki takes her well-deserved break, I step into her shoes for a bit, same as I did before she got the job. Any longer than two weeks, I get scared of the responsibility"  
It was on the tip of Connie's tongue to say that if there was one thing that she craved, it was responsibility and the power and position that went with that but she stopped short. The reality behind such feelings belonged to some other person, some other dimension than the one she lived in. She mentally recoiled from thinking too much about it.  
"I get to see all kinds of life and I reckon I'm pretty good in talking to people. Mind you, people have to take me as they find me or else not at all. I haven't any ambitions to go any further. I'm just doing something that I'm happy doing and that I believe in." Connie listened closely to what Gina was telling her and they struck a chord. It was funny but in all her years at St. Mary's, it had never crossed her mind to ask anyone the sort of questions she was now finding both time and inclination now to ask. 


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: I was supposed to write this scene, but have had a serious case of writer's block, so Richard wrote it instead. 

Part Thirteen 

Marino hadn't really thought too much about the idea of a trip to England. He was no stranger to travel. At least they spoke the same language, or so he had thought.

He fidgeted his way through his terminal boredom of the flight over the Atlantic, the overpriced drink from the air stewardess and the in flight movie. It was one of those sub standard things they pull off the shelf and stick on one of the many TV channels late at night. The reality of flying to England hadn't really dawned on him and Kay had preferred to leave it that way. She was bright eyed and eagerly anticipating catching up on her previous experience in England. She knew the ropes to some extent. "So what is this George dame like? Sounds like a kinda funny name," "Marino, it is short for Georgia and she is a very glamorous, very English lady. She doesn't suffer fools gladly and she is a true professional so you have to be on your best behaviour. We will be staying at her house during our stay. She is extremely hospitable and an excellent cook." The light in his eye had been sufficient answer to him that her mention of food had not been lost on him.

The final swoop down to Heathrow Airport was similarly uneventful. They let themselves be processed in waiting for the moment to stand up and trudge their way down the aisle and be taken to Terminal 4 and go through security and customs. The periodic waiting at each stage was patiently endured as part of airport life until they finally waited to collect their luggage. It wasn't until they went through the various stages of disembarking that Marino perceived that these guys spoke a funny kind of English and it puzzled him. It didn't sound right to him.

He found their usual airport trolley and manfully loaded up their combined luggage, pushing it in the general direction of the huge echoing foyer. In the meantime, Kay peered closely through the crowds to catch sight of George. Sure enough, she spotted the unfailingly elegantly dressed woman, whose smile of recognition lit up her face.

"It's good to see you, Kay." George greeted her, briefly hugging and kissing her on her cheek.  
"You're looking well, George, much better than when I saw you last time"  
"I still smoke as much as before. That's one vice that I'm not prepared to give up"  
"I must introduce you to Captain Pete Marino. Marino, this is George Channing who I've mentioned to you before. She's the defence barrister for the trial"  
The man stood awkwardly, not sure how to greet this incredibly classy dame, with an accent straight out of the movies, Jesus, they really did speak like this, it wasn't a put on. He covered his awkwardness by dealing with practical matters. "You want any help to load up your car? The Doc ain't exactly traveling light"  
George grinned at the difference in sizes in the two cases and Kay's crime scene case, complete with luma-lite, added to the heavy load. "You should know that it's a woman's privilege to take at least as twice as many outfits as she needs, Marino," she laughed. "I'll lead the way to my car"  
Marino maintained a bashful silence rather than make some sarcastic crack about how dames were alike, the world over. Kay smiled to herself, thinking that Marino was coming over as very restrained, remaining as much in the background as he ever could in a social situation. They walked out of the foyer towards the very large car park. When George's car came into view, Marino stared open mouthed at the classy looking convertible. That was some set of wheels.  
"Great looking car if it is kinda small." Marino observed in a manner from his youth when he and his buddies were eyeing up the girls on the local dance floor.  
"It's enough for my needs," George observed dryly, opening up the car for the boot to be loaded. When this was done, Marino automatically headed for the right hand front door. "Excuse me but I'm driving"  
"Sure, George," Marino apologized. He had been trying to seat himself in the unfamiliar passenger seat and forgot the obvious.  
The first cultural shock that Marino was exposed to was the back to front car, with the steering wheel on the wrong side. The second was when George led the car confidently out into the screwy back to front world that was the English road system and away from the dull uniformity of the airport that could be anywhere in the world. Marino sat back in the passenger seat while he adjusted to the tiny cars that whizzed along. It made him feel sick and the journey passed in a blur. George's driving made him respect her as she was lapping it up and didn't take no shit from the other drivers.

The third shock was when they arrived at George's house. This was an understatement. His eyes couldn't believe what they saw, the fancy paintings and real class. This was more like a palace but not in a show off kind of way.

"You show Marino into the dining room. I've got a chicken casserole that's been warming. I'll serve jacket potatoes with it." Marino let himself be led into the swankiest dining room that he had ever seen that was tasteful as well. He was content to sit back quietly, assisted by the jet lag, which was a unique experience for Kay. Delicious smells of cooking started to waft through, making Marino's mouth water. This was something he could deal with if it weren't for these forks and knives. A little smile at the corners of Kay's lips told Marino that he couldn't cut up the food, lay his knife down and shovel down the food with his fork. He was expected to be dainty in his movements, something that ran contrary to Marino's large frame and body movements, which matched. He stole sideways glances at Kay and copied how the Doc dealt with her food. Sure enough, the pizza-cooking doc became an instant Englishwoman. George's eyes sparkled with amusement as she led off the trio in small talk. As they sat at the table, Kay marvelled at the difference in the normally loud Marino who seemed to fill the room. He was making an especial effort to be good.  
"I've heard that you like drinking Bourbon, Marino. Do you want a glass?" "This must be heaven." Marino replied soulfully, rolling his eyes and making George laugh out loud.

"Now, to work." George observed some while later." You know already, Kay that a lot of this trial will come down to forensics. We simply have to find an explanation as to how this unfortunate woman died. From speaking to Connie already, she can't explain it. There must have been something that all the others have missed." "As you know, Marino is used to helping me at post mortems," began Kay.  
"Yeah, show us to the mortuary and leave the rest to us." Marino pronounced with growing confidence, resuming his normal cocksure manner. "Where you come in, Marino," George continued with that inclusively gracious air," is in questioning Connie. The police have done that already when she was first arrested. "Marino works best in starting from the beginning with no preconceptions. He asks the right questions and is a really fine policeman. I have great confidence in him"  
George looked at the other two with great interest. The two of them couldn't be further different in manner if they had tried, the scholarly, highly professional blonde American woman and the large man, straight from the Bronx. "I cut my teeth on the lousiest precinct on the Bronx. Of course, I know how to take it easy and be real compassionate." Marino hastened to add, realizing that his tough guy persona might be misplaced and stealing a line out of the flunked political correctness course he had been pressurized to attend.  
"We gotta take it as it goes, and not miss nothing out. That way, we outsmart them, behind the scene and out front in court, however smart they think they are"  
George looked sharply at Marino. This was another brief glimpse of another man entirely. From Kay's recommendations, this man meant every word he said. This wasn't the Bourbon talking. 


	14. Chapter 14

Part Fourteen

Neil Haughton prided himself on his tenaciousness. After all, he duly modelled himself on The Leader. He, in turn had taken a few lessons from a female predecessor, whose iron resolution had mesmerized one part of a generation even as much as the other part had hated her. He also adhered to the party principle of greasing the palms of those to whom he is indebted. That meant Michael Beauchamp. Self-evidently, it did not include the trade union barons. He deplored their connections to his party as an outmoded convention, much though he grudgingly accepted their funding as a tiresome necessity.

On this trial, he was given a fairly free hand on how to manage the forthcoming trial, which was rather unsettling. He had been accustomed to receiving the party line, making it his own and lecturing and hectoring his underlings to spread the word. In this case, the guilt or innocence of just another operative in the NHS was only important in terms of the political fall out. The case didn't have any ramifications except as far as it reflected on the Health Minister's reputation. He was asked to ensure that the prosecution barrister didn't get his bit between his teeth and get too gung ho on the case. A discreet few words with the man might help. He had heard that the man was amenable so he picked up the phone to wheel him in. 

Brian Cantwell was just readying himself to sink into an armchair on a Saturday morning with his favourite book when the phone rang. It had that insistent quality and didn't go away so, sighing with exasperation, he picked it up. He hoped that it wasn't his mother in law, wanting him to manfully change a fuse in her electric kettle.

"Good morning, Brian. I would very much appreciate it if you could pop over to my office next to the Houses of Parliament. I have some most important business I want to discuss with you"  
"It is a Saturday, you know Neil," Brian Cantwell urged with commendable restraint. The subtleties of that tone of voice went clean past the other man, who was clearly on a mission. "To a cabinet minister, the job never ends. Service to the country, you know. It is to your advantage as well. You let the security man know who you are and he'll show you right up to me"  
Brian Cantwell was on the point of telling the man to get lost, when caution persuaded him otherwise. True, he had no direct connection with the case in hand but he had better hear him out. In his younger days, he had had to shoot over to whatever Godforsaken remote court hearing for the sake of the fee at the end of it. Instinct made him wearily agree. "Be with you in an hour, Neil"  
After fighting his way through the traffic to the destination, he sourly surveyed the airy glass and brick building. It must have spent a pretty penny out of taxpayer's money, he fumed, as he was duly frisked by security and went up the lift to Neil Houghton's airy new office. No more poky cubbyhole in the Houses of Parliament for a rising star.

"Good morning, Neil," Brian Cantwell greeted him with a wan smile, while his sharp eyes were trained on him watchfully. He knew full well that George's relationship with the man was chilly to say the best. He couldn't help wondering what she had ever seen in him. Surely someone as attractive as George would have better taste, he considered tetchily. Then he remembered. The man was a cabinet minister. He had read somewhere that power was an aphrodisiac though for the life of him, he couldn't work out how that could work in practice.

The other man extended his hand in apparent friendliness to him, and Brian Cantwell cynically noted that the man must have had a lot of practice in shaking hands to get to his present position. Returning the compliment, Brian Cantwell went along with the charade. It better be important, he fumed, for his sacred privacy of the weekend to be interrupted. However important the business the matter might be, it could have waited till the Monday.  
"It's good of you to come at short notice. The matter is important," the smooth tones rolled out like treacle. Brian Cantwell looked at the other man with a frozen expression, ignoring the sales talk. "When Friday night comes, my humble job ends and I revert to being the private citizen. For instance, if I were to walk down the street, what paparazzi would bother to sneak a photograph of me? In your case, the situation is different"  
From the expression of incomprehension on Neil Haughton's face, Brian Cantwell decided to cut his losses and get straight to the point.  
"So what's the problem, Neil"  
"You know why I've asked to see you, Brian. You're the prosecution barrister in the Connie Beauchamp case. You know, the consultant who's supposed to have murdered her patient," Neil Houghton retorted, irritated at being pinned down so early. "Word travels fast, Neil." "We keep our ears close to the ground, Brian." Neil Haughton said with a confiding smile. "Between you and me, the word is out that you shouldn't be too hard on her, Brian, that's a good chap. There is some doubt that it is in the public interest to have a relatively senior member of the medical profession be exposed to the tender mercies of the press. It would cause the public to question the worth of the good old NHS which the people know and love"  
By the patronizing tone of voice in Neil Haughton's voice, Brian Cantwell judged correctly that this man went strictly private for his healthcare and wasn't greatly concerned personally if the NHS sank or swam.

"The Home Offices has absolutely nothing to do with the bar or the judiciary or so I have always been led to believe. You'll probably know that us barristers are freelancers. We sell our services on the open market. We have to ensure that there's something worth selling. We stand or fall by our professional reputations. If I make a habit of rolling over and dying, who will hire me in future"  
"I'm sure that your reputation is rock solid. You are no newcomer after all. We'll see that you're all right"  
The man's confiding smile made Brian Cantwell feel uneasy. He didn't like being tied in to a particular position but wanted freedom of manoeuvre. He liked the generally cosy relationship with his fellow barristers outside court, while his combative instincts were let loose within it. While he had an aversion to black people, it didn't stand in the way of taking them on as clients. He was a natural conservative yet he didn't really like to be told what to do by anyone. Life felt comfortable for him and he was bored by John Deed chasing after all sort of trendy causes. At that second, he sensed a trap right in front of him. In a split second, he knew what it was. It was the prospect of ending up being the government's tame barrister and look what happened to George. Besides, the thought of him being a tame anything ran totally contrary to his nature.  
"It all depends on the case, Neil. There are no certainties as to the progress of trials. I have taken on some cases and won them when on first impression, the case looked shaky. On the other hand, some of the most cast iron cases have fallen apart for the most unlikely reasons"  
Neil Houghton's eyes started to glare at Brian Cantwell who looked perfectly unmoved. He had appeared before judges whose theatrical power was greater than this politician and had survived their fury, even John Deed's. He had crossed swords with opposing counsel whose verbal fluency and suppleness of mind had to be respected. By contrast, this man was easy meat. He didn't pay his fees so why should he worry? "So how do you intend to pursue the case, Brian if that's not too much to ask"  
"The way I normally approach a case, providing there's a nice fat fee at the end of it"  
"So you will bear in mind what I've just said"  
Brian Cantwell paused for a moment as if to consider making up his mind. In reality, the presence of this very pushy politician had only reinforced his own ideas on how to conduct his case. "It depends on a number of factors and what you call hard, Neil. I'm up against George Channing. Surely you know how hard she can get." The other man's eyes glittered with anger at Brian Cantwell's adroit non-answer. He wasn't sure whether this impudent fellow was also rubbing his past relationship with George in his face.  
"I can't see what the problem is. You want the case to be thrown out. There are very few barristers that I can think of who might beat me in a fair fight. She has carved out a tidy reputation for being a tough fighter, especially over the last few years when she has had a run of victories. She is very well thought of." "So long as you play your part, that is all that I'm asking of you," hissed Neil Haughton." I don't care how you do it. I just want results"  
He was burning up inside. It crossed his mind that the man was playing with him and taunting him with titbits of gossip of his past relationship with George. He was never sure just how much of his private life leaked out to those who had no business in knowing his business. In turn, Brian Cantwell looked back at him with amused contempt to see how twitchy the man was.  
"Of course, it also depends on which judge gets his, or her, hands on the case, Neil. It ought not to matter but I have found that in practice, it does. Judges are after all, human just like the rest of us. Still, I dare say that you will know before I do. You're the Home Secretary after all." 

Brian Cantwell strolled away with a thoughtful expression on his face. He had no time with neurotics who spilled over into print with their conspiracy theories. It seemed that they were forever trying to get you to worry what lay the other side of his garden hedge. It seemed too much like hard work for him. After this conversation, snatches of conversations came back to his mind and he resolved to treat such theories more seriously in future. There was one thing for sure and that he was damned if he was going to let some politician push him around. Besides, the prospect of crossing swords with George promised to be a good scrap. At least it wouldn't be dull. 


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: These chapters are as yet unbetaed, but they will be replaced with the betaed copies when I have them. 

Part Fifteen

On the Saturday morning, they all rose early, though Marino at least couldn't be said to be anything resembling bright. As they sat at the breakfast table, eating cereals, toast, and in Marino's case a bagel with ham and melted cheese that George had kindly made for him, they were mostly quiet. But as Marino chewed gratefully on his bagel, he just had to break the silence. "Just remind me," He began sulkily. "Whose idea was it that we come half way across the world, to take care of a post on top of jet lag?" "It was mine," George valiantly confessed. "Marino, will you please not talk with your mouth full? It really is most off putting." George couldn't help laughing. "I might have known you less than twenty-four hours, Marino, but seeing you and Kay together really does remind me of John and myself when we were at the constantly bickering stage of being married." "God forbid," Kay muttered with a smile. "Well, that's nice," Marino replied, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "The years I've been working on you, Doc, you'd have thought it would have got me somewhere by now." "Not in your wildest dreams," Kay replied, pouring herself some more coffee. "Do you see what I mean?" George said with a smirk, thinking that they were sounding more like her and John every minute. "Well, we have been working together for nearly twenty-five years," Kay said thoughtfully. "And just think how many deaths we've seen in all that time," Marino said a little darkly. "Well, this morning's death is what we need to think about," Put in George to prevent them from doing any more bickering for the time being. "I would like to observe if you don't mind, that is." "Be my guest," Kay told her without a flicker. "But you definitely need a strong stomach for your first post-mortem. But if you think you can handle it, feel free." "Bet you five of your English pounds that you quit half way through," Marino challenged George. "Ok," George replied a little foolishly. "You're on." She had risen to the challenge because this had always been her raison d'etre, and she wasn't about to back down for anybody. 

They drove to the morgue attached to St. Mary's Hospital in Paddington, George at least wondering just what she had let herself in for. She resigned herself to the thought, however, that one dead body must look like another, and she had already seen one before, on that horrific day when they had gone to identify a body that thankfully wasn't Charlie. She pulled into the car park and they all three emerged into the late August sunshine. George privately thought that it was far too nice a day to be contemplating death in all its disturbing glory, but this was what they were here for, to try and find the evidence to free Connie from prison. 

It was Tom who let them into the morgue building, saying that he had been waiting for them. "I've explained the situation to Professor Ryan's replacement, Dr. Leo Dolton, and he's perfectly happy for you to use the facilities." "Good," Kay replied, and then introduced Marino. "And how are you these days, Ms Channing?" He asked George, not having seen her since she had been in hospital earlier in the year having her breast removed. "I'm fine," George replied. "Ric really did perform a miracle on me, even though I couldn't see it at the time." "Well, don't tell him that," Tom said with a smile. "Or he'll be even worse to live with than usual." Then, when he observed all three of them getting into scrubs, shoe covers and facemasks, he said in surprise to George, "Are you planning to observe?" "For as long as I can stick it, yes," George replied a little defensively. "Well, I can't pretend that this won't be extremely difficult for you," Tom continued. "But that's up to you." Then, turning back to Kay, he asked, "Is there anything I can do here?" "You could scribe for me if you would," Kay told him gratefully. "Yeah, 'cause she don't like the way I spell all those Latin words," Put in Marino. Tom smiled and said, "I'm at your service." 

When Kay and Marino wheeled Angela Masters out of the walk-in fridge, George looked on stoically. "The first thing we have to do," Kay began, speaking mainly for George's benefit. "Is to go over every inch of the outer surface of the body, looking for any trace evidence that may not have been picked up in the original post-mortem." "I bet that guy destroyed any evidence," Marino said disgustedly. "You could be right there," Tom concurred, sitting down at a desk in the corner to begin scribing for Kay, who pulled on two pairs of gloves and handed some to Marino. "You don't need gloves," She told George. "Because you won't be touching the body under any circumstances." "You're quite right I won't," George agreed, standing well out of the way. "You want me to help lift her onto the table?" Marino asked, having helped Kay do this on numerous occasions in the past. As they lifted the woman's body from the trolley to the table, Marino lifting the shoulders and upper torso and Kay supporting the legs, it occurred to George that they were trying to accord Angela Masters as much dignity as possible, even though she wasn't alive to comment. "Now, I don't need to X-ray her, because we already have those," Kay continued, once they had the body in the correct position. "But I do want to go over her with the luma-lite, so you all need to put on glasses to protect your eyes." Pulling open a drawer in the desk, Tom handed them round. When Kay had unpacked the luma-lite from its carrying case, Tom moved to switch off the lights. "How does that help you?" George enquired, now truly fascinated. "The luma-lite can pick up trace evidence that can't be seen with the naked eye," Kay explained. "Such as bodily fluids, drugs or very fine fibres." 

As Kay moved over the body with the luma-lite also known as an ultra-violet light source, looking for the slightest thing that might go some way to helping Connie, George watched her every movement. "I'm taking a sample of the victim's hair," Kay dictated to Tom. "To get it analysed for any drugs present in her body. These may be prescribed drugs or illegal drugs." She clipped off a lock of hair from the woman's head, and transferred it to an evidence envelope which Marino held open for her. "She has no obvious contusions to the scalp," Kay continued, "So unless I find something in the brain to go against this finding, I would say that the killer didn't at any time hit her on the head." 

Next she moved onto the face, but as she ran the luma-lite over the nose, and made to shine it inside the mouth, the door was pushed open. Glancing up, Kay's face broke into a smile. "Harry," She said, clearly having recognised the newcomer. "Nice to see you. Come in, but put some glasses on first." "I didn't know you were over here," Harry said as he moved into the room and took some protective glasses from the drawer. "Leo just told me that there was someone using our facilities today." "Dr. Harry Cunningham," Kay said, making introductions. "George Channing QC and Captain Pete Marino." "Sounds as though you have a pretty illustrious team," Harry commented, nodding to Tom whom he already knew. "Do you want any help? My time is as yet my own this morning." "I don't think I do, thank you," Kay told him as he stood at her shoulder and looked down at the body. "But feel free to stay if you have nothing better to do." "I never pass up the opportunity to learn something new," Harry replied gratefully. "I usually do when you're here." 

When Kay moved the luma-lite down the victim's left arm, she stopped, focussing directly on the elbow crease of the young woman, where an intra-venous needle had been secured under the skin. Calling for a swab, she delicately moved it over the skin of the elbow, being very careful not to disturb or destroy any trace evidence that may be found. "At a glance," Kay told everybody. "I would say that this came from a 14 Gauge IV needle, probably used for administering drugs through a drip, but I will measure it to make sure." After doing this, she focussed the luma-lite on the needle mark that broke the skin. "What've you found?" Marino asked, observing the intense look of concentration on Kay's face. "The luma-lite is picking up some sort of trace right inside the wound of the needle mark. Harry could you get some pictures of this for me?" "Sure," Harry replied, moving to a wall cabinet to select his favourite Nikon. "I'm going to swab inside the slight wound made by the IV needle," Kay explained. "As the luma-lite may be picking up the traces of drugs. This may be a drug that was given to her either during or after her heart surgery, or it may also have been what the killer used to murder the patient. Care to hear a theory?" "Is this hearsay evidence or actual evidence?" George asked, not wanting Kay to jump the gun and fall professionally flat on her face. "Oh, it's definitely hearsay without a doubt," Kay told her with a smile. "Well, for now at least. We'll hopefully know more when we open her up." "It's usually me who has the unfounded theories," Put in Marino "So, let's hear it, Doc." "So far," Kay began. "This woman has no obvious bruises, contusions or open wounds, except for those associated with her surgery. There are no needle marks on her right arm, though there is one in the back of her right hand, which I will also swab. I would therefore tentatively suggest, that this woman was murdered, by way of the intra-venous drip, situated in the crook of her left elbow, or the back of her right hand." "So, you think that the killer most likely administered a drug via her drip?" George clarified. "Which would probably mean that the killer is some sort of medical personnel." "Got it in one," Kay replied. "And if I were planning to kill somebody quickly and quietly, I would probably go for either insulin, which immediately causes the blood sugar to drop through the floor, rendering the patient unconscious and dead within minutes if not treated accordingly, or potassium chloride, which in large enough quantities simply stops the heart from beating." "Potassium chloride is what they use to stop a foetal heart from beating, during terminations of pregnancies over twenty-four weeks," Put in Harry, for both George's and Marino's benefit. "That's just barbaric," George replied disgustedly. "Actually, it isn't," Harry told her patiently. "The foetus feels no pain, no distress, and it makes the process far more humane than it might otherwise have been had the child been born to parents who didn't want him or her." 

After turning the body over to examine everything at the back of her, Kay and Marino turned her back, and Kay and Harry between them began unpicking the stitches from her previous post-mortem. "The Y incision is fairly neat," Kay told the assembled company, referring to the incision that started at each clavicle or collarbone, and made a straight path down the sternum and abdomen, making a brief detour around the navel, to arrive at the pubic bone. As the woman's body was opened to the air, the pervading aroma of decomposing flesh and blood filled their nostrils. For the three doctors and Marino this was nothing new, but George found herself raising her hand to cover her face, leaving it there until she became a little more used to it. "Trust me," Marino told George, seeing her slight discomfort. "This is nothing compared to some of the deaths we've investigated. Remember that decomposing body in the ship container, Doc?" "Considering that he turned out to be La Lupe Garrou's cousin," Kay said disgustedly. "I doubt I'll ever forget him, and I don't think that George really wants to know the details," She told Marino firmly. 

"First I need to move the stomach out of the way, so that I can get a good look at the pancreas. When the liver is damaged, it can look slightly nodular, with a grainy appearance to the surface of it. When the pancreas is damaged, it takes on a scarred appearance, similar to the appearance of damaged kidneys. However," She continued, moving the stomach and the duodenum, or upper part of the small intestine out of the way. "This pancreas is in almost perfect condition, with the surface appearing smooth and only slightly marred, which I would associate with any otherwise healthy adult. I would hazard a guess therefore that she wasn't murdered by an overdose of insulin. If I examine the stomach, it is almost tubular in its appearance. This might suggest some sort of eating disorder prior to the surgery. George, come and look at this," Kay invited, suddenly having an idea. Moving hesitantly forward, George looked down at the J-shaped organ in Kay's hands. "This is what a person's stomach looks like when they haven't been eating properly for some considerable time." Asking Harry if he would way it for her, Kay used a scalpel to sever the stomach from the lower end of the oesophagus. Harry carried the organ over to the scale that hung on chains from the ceiling and gave the weight to Tom who noted it down. 

"To remove the heart so that I can examine it more closely," Kay continued. "It's easier to extract the heart and lungs in one single block. To accomplish this, we need to transect the aorta, as well as the pulmonary artery, the pulmonary vein and the superior vena cava." Lifting the block of organs from the chest cavity, Kay moved over to another table where she had set out a scalpel and chopping board. Detaching the heart from the lungs, she moved these aside, and began going over every inch of the mass in front of her. "First I need to divide the pericardium, the membrane that surrounds the heart. This will give me access to the heart itself, which I'm going to open, bypassing some very superior stitching from her surgery." "All Connie's handiwork," Tom put in from his desk in the corner. "If you all gather round," Kay invited. ""You can get a closer look at what I'm talking about. This woman had an Atrial Septal Defect, more commonly known as a hole in the heart. It is a congenital condition, and is usually picked up in childhood or adolescence. This woman however, didn't discover her condition until her mid thirties. The heart is somewhat enlarged, as a result of the extra strain that was being put on it from the ASD. The internal surface of the heart is quite granular, possibly suggesting the presence of too much potassium. I'll take a swab, and we'll know more once the labs can get working on it. Now, if you look very closely, you can see the extremely fine stitching that has repaired the hole in the wall or septum between the left and right atria. Tom, I'm guessing that something like 2,0 Vicrole was used?" "Probably," Tom concurred from the corner. They could all see the highly delicate needlework, and all of them could see just how much skill and training would have been required to create something so neatly sewn. 

Leaving the heart and lungs on the chopping board for the moment, Kay moved back over to the body on the table. "I now need to examine the brain," She told them. "To find out if she had any type of seizure associated with her death." Picking up a scalpel and asking Harry to hold the woman's hair out of the way, she began making an incision around the base of the woman's skull. But when Kay carefully peeled back the hair and skin of the scalp, followed by the face, allowing it to collapse, revealing the surface of the skull and the facial bone structure, George knew that she had finally seen too much. "Good, God!" She said into the silence. Then, feeling the bile rising from her stomach, she moved to the nearest sink, leaning over it and retching till she thought her heart must surely come right out of her mouth. "Marino, get her out of here," Kay instructed him firmly. Waiting until George had finished heaving, Marino put a heavy arm around her shoulders and steered her out of the door, along the corridor and into the fresh air. 

As George reached into her pocket for a tissue to wipe her face with, Marino led her over to a nearby bench. "I'm so sorry for doing that," George said, slumping gratefully onto the wooden seat. "No problem," Marino told her kindly, retrieving his cigarettes from his trouser pocket and handing her one, holding the flame for her to light it. "You did well to stick it out so long. Some cops have the same reaction at their first demo autopsies." "You won your bet," George said after taking a long and satisfying drag. "It was a little unfair of me to challenge you in the first place," Marino replied, wondering just where all this kindness and generosity was coming from. The Doc would be proud of him if she could hear him now. "I really don't think I can go back in there," George said with a slight shudder. "What I suggest you do," Marino told her. "Is to go home, and if you can keep it down, make yourself a strong, hot coffee." Taking his advice a little while later, George drove away, knowing that the sight of that collapsed face would haunt for some time to come. 


	16. Chapter 16

Part Sixteen 

Kay and Marino finally wrapped up the autopsy and made their way out to the reception, thanking Tom and Harry for their assistance. While Kay went off to phone for a cab with an air of assurance in a foreign country, Marino was engaged in conversation by a very sociable and inquisitive Nurse Jackson, complete with dazzling smile. Secretly, she wanted to work out what was in common between this genteel American blond woman and the plump guy with a tough guy demeanour from the way he walked. She was disappointed that he wasn't giving anything away.

In contrast to George's feelings of nausea, Marino's experience at St Mary's hospital was very reassuring and comforting to Marino. It made him feel that he was in more familiar surroundings. A hospital was a hospital and the sights, sounds and above all the smells were just the same, from country to country or so the faintly internationalist policeman told himself, as he mentally nailed down his experience of his second country outside the good old US of A. It was only since he had come to England that he realized what he had come to take for granted in his life. Perhaps it was because the English spoke the same language as him, or something like it. It made him sit up and take notice of himself and everything around him, as France had never done.

As he took his place in the cab, he let Kay give the directions, as he was content to sit in the back of the cab. Mind you, it didn't take away how kind of weird he felt being over in England. He just couldn't get used to the guy driving on the wrong side of the road. The driver was OK but that didn't stop him worrying that he would total the cab in an accident, running head on into some truck driver on his rightful side of the road. The thought that he and the Doc would be inside the car made him feel ill and queasy. Outwardly, he was uncharacteristically silent and withdrawn. He was slumped in the back seat while the Doc was looking all round her at the scenery like some goddamn tourist.

Marino was relieved when the taxi pulled up outside George's house and they entered the sitting room. It wasn't just that he was pleased to be staying at such a classy house, but that he knew that the alternative of a hotel would be cold and impersonal. He was beginning to take to his new surrounding even if it was a strain, remembering how to hold a knife and fork properly and being ticked off by the Doc for the way he ate his food. What intrigued him was the way that Kay was so familiar and at home in the house. He remembered that Kay had stayed here the couple of times that she had flown over to England. This was a part of her life that Marino hadn't known about. He didn't know how he felt about that after the way that they had worked together for so long in far off Richmond. He shrugged his shoulders, uncomprehendingly as Kay headed straight for the shower. He knew that she would do this as this was part of her routine to freshen herself up after working round human death and detritus.

As George busied herself in the kitchen, Marino had the chance to stretch his legs and relax in a comfortable armchair. The room he found himself in had long brocaded curtains and pale greenish, slightly patterned wallpaper and an elegant black piano. It was all very cultured and he laid bets with himself that the piano wasn't for show. It was just as well that he'd got used to the Doc's house or else he would have felt like a total alien. As he rested, he reflected on what he'd seen that morning. He had to hand it to them, these English guys were real sharp and polite. There was nothing of that itching feeling in his hands when he came across some dumb jerk that he wanted to shake by the shoulders when they didn't get what was right before his eyes. These medics knew their business and didn't look stupid even while the doctor lawyer Indian chief did her stuff. The period of relaxation put him into a better mood than his jet lagged state of the morning and achieved one vital object as itt let his stomach return to normal.

His wandering thoughts put George under his scrutiny. She is quite some lady and she has one real sharp eye for what's evidence and what isn't. Only time she goofed was taking him on in a sure fire bet. All the same, she was pretty gutsy in sticking out the post mortem as long as she did. He suspected that she was naturally a sore loser but she was very kind and gracious in settling the bet. He felt for his wallet and took out that large five pound note that George graciously gave him, studied its design and put it carefully back in his wallet. He observed how larger and more colourful than the dollar bills he was used to handling. Of course he wouldn't spend it but would preserve it as a keepsake. He cheerfully accepted that George's cooking made up for his accustomed freedom to slip into his car and head off to some downtown twenty-four open eating joint. The thought made his mouth drool at the thought of more of her home cooking, washed down with some Bourbon or beer.

George had shot back home and had taken a long shower to wash the feelings of shock and revulsion out of her skin. Kay had been right to urge words of caution in going to her first post mortem. The trouble was that she had seen this as a technical, a clinical necessity and hadn't imagined the physical details. She'd foolishly imagined that a post mortem involved an incisive examination of a dead body who only appeared to be sleeping. She hadn't anticipated the smell of decomposing flesh and blood. Not in her worst nightmares had she predicted the way that human face had collapsed into a distorted shape and what the human skull looked like underneath the layer of smooth skin and beautifying make-up. The vision was totally disturbing. What she wouldn't begin to deal with was the brutal flesh and blood reality of an eating disorder. At that point, George's fingers were more than glad to take over activity from her dangerously over active imagination. They placed everything in order and it enabled her to entertain her guests.

Finally, her carrying voice announced that the meal was ready. Her kitchen was functional and spotless and she had set out a salad with crusty bread rolls and pate and cheese. Marino's precise eye picked out how Kay immediately took her selection of salad, that there pate and a delicate slice of cheese. Marino passed up the opportunity to enlarge his knowledge of different foods- OK for the French, but not for him. Marino thoroughly approved of the strong Brazilian coffee that was on offer. It was fancier and stronger than what he was used to but it sharpened him up just nicely.

"Well, have you recovered from your first experience of witnessing a postmortem, George"  
"Don't mention it," George shuddered, "What you did with that face was positively barbaric"  
"You've been in court, I guess, hearing post mortem reports. Have you ever wondered what it took for you to get the information to nail the right guy?" Marino gently interposed.  
Those words made George sit up and take notice. He was perfectly right and she got a background view of that capacity for understanding, which enabled him to work with Kay for so long.  
"Besides, look at it this way, it was the most dignified way that we can get to the brain. Kay and I, we don't ever forget that the bodies we handle were once people, same and you and I. It's what has kept me on the beat all these years and made sure that I get it right, that we get at the truth"  
"I'm sorry, Marino," George apologized while Kay looked on approvingly. "I understand what you say." "Don't worry. I remember the first time I went to an autopsy and I threw up. It's not the first time I've done it because the sights I've seen over the years, well, they ain't pretty."

"So where do we go from here with what we've seen today?" Kay asked. "We get to check out what Connie has to say," Marino said deliberately, puffing on his cigarette,"and then we go figure out what she don't know. Trouble is, that whatever the squirrel who did this, we've got to pick out the screwball that takes a life instead of saves one. I mean, how in hell can that squirrel get a job working in a hospital and nothing breaks loose till now. This ain't going to be easy. There's one thing for sure, we make no assumptions and we keep our eyes and ears open"  
"A hospital is a busy place, Marino. From what I've seen, people can come and go and if you look as if you've got good reason to be where you are, you aren't going to be questioned"  
"That's all I wanted to hear," George uttered in despondent tones. Something of the same ideas had been at the back of her mind except that Kay and Marino put it as sharply as this.  
"We'll give this our best shot, George. Between the two of us, we've cracked cases that are as tough as they get while you stick up for Connie in court. Hell, I guess we're all as good as it takes"  
George smiled at Marino's comforting words while Kay marvelled how the man who affected a red neck exterior could be so contrastingly sensitive.  
Hours later, Marino went upstairs to bed. He was tired out but in a pleasant way. He was getting used to his unfamiliar surroundings. "George is quite some lady. I'll miss her cooking"  
"Is that the only reason why you're here?" Kay laughed.  
"No Doc……but it helps," Marino winked. 


	17. Chapter 17

A/N: This chapter is jointly written. 

Part Seventeen

For Helen and Nikki , sunday morning shaped up to be just relaxing in bed. The early morning sunshine shone in through the windows, trying to attract Nikki's attention. She was aware of it but didn't want to face the morning too soon. The feeling was just too good to want disturbing. Suddenly the phone jangled and sought urgent attention. Helen being nearest picked it up and answered it.  
"Hi Karen, nice to hear from you," Helen's early morning tones and her wide smile greeted the voice on the other end of the phone. "I'll pass the phone over to Nikki"  
By now, the other woman was thoroughly alert, as she knew that it meant an urgent work commitment. She talked awhile to Karen while Helen deduced from her own experience what was to happen.  
"I'm sorry to spoil the weekend, darling, but Karen and I have been called on urgent prisoner escort duty today. Area won't accept substitutes. You know how it is"  
"Relax, Nikki. You know that I've been there. This will give me the chance to sort out my paperwork, something that I've kept putting off for ages"  
Nikki beamed at Helen's understanding, gave Helen a long kiss and fumbled for her work suit that was hanging up on the rail. Looking at her watch, she had just enough time to put her makeup on and zoom off to Larkhall. 

Karen looked up from her desk and smiled as Nikki entered, looking a little dishevelled but there on time.  
"Here's the OK from Area Management for Connie to be taken to St. Mary's Hospital. You can read for yourself the strict instructions that we are under, that it expressly forbids us to delegate this job. You know that Neil pulled strings to get this request agreed to"  
"I'm up for it. I've had some spare time on my hands this last week. It won't last, of course." Nikki said with an expressionless look on her face.  
"You do know that both of us will be handcuffed to Connie for the journey. You don't have any problems with it, Nikki"  
"If that is what it takes for Connie's defence to be given a fair crack of the whip, so be it. Area could have turned round and said no to the request"  
Karen smiled in appreciation at Nikki's pragmatism and modestly expressed willingness to dedicate her attention to the job in hand. Other wing governors under her wing might not have been so willing. "We'll get going then."

The two women strode along the corridors and down onto the wing. Connie was making the best of the prison breakfast while talking in a desultory fashion to the Two Julies and Denny. Heads swivelled round as they saw both Karen and Nikki in Larkhall on a Sunday. "Connie, Karen and I want to have a quiet word in my office when you've finished breakfast," appeared Nikki's quiet voice from somewhere above and behind her.  
"I think that the breakfast has finished with me," Connie said somberly, half turning to face her. Acutely aware of the inquisitive look on Connie's face asking if this was good news or bad, the two women looked brightly at Connie. Whatever the chat was about, they were trying to tell her, it was nothing to worry about.

"Connie, George and Kay have asked that you be escorted to St. Mary's so that Kay and Captain Marino can go over the crime scene. George obviously wants you to be there as you will know it better than anyone else"  
"That sounds fine." Connie replied brightly. "You must know that we shall have to be handcuffed to you for the journey and that we will accompany you. W can't give the job to an ordinary prison officer as this was the price of the deal." Karen interposed gently. Connie's expression fell at this revelation as she suspected what was in store for her but she nodded her agreement. It had to be done.  
"Give me five minutes to freshen up and I'm ready"  
As Connie attended to her makeup, it crossed her mind how appearance was everything to Connie. She resembled George in this respect and going round St. Mary's hospital where she had reigned supreme, she was going to need every external prop that she could lay her hands on.

As they strolled onto the wing, both Karen and Nikki spotted trouble. By the look of the scowling, ever so made up face of Natalie Buxton, she was obviously out to make trouble.

"This has got to be bloody favouritism. None of the rest of us girls get taken out for jollies by the wing governor and governing governor. Still, at least we know where we stand, don't we," sneered Natalie Buxton cattily.  
"Buxton, if it were my duty to chain myself to you for a Sunday to take you wherever the prison service directed me, I'd do it. It doesn't mean to say that I'd like it," lashed back Nikki to the accompaniment of a burst of laughter, and Connie's admiration of Nikki's two-fisted verbal technique.

"We'll be back when we're back, Dominic," Karen said to Dominic. While she reached for her bunch of keys , Nikki snapped a handcuff over Connie's slim wrist. Soon they were out in the prison yard and Connie and Nikki took their place in Karen's car. The gates were opened up for them and Karen steered the car for the open road. During the journey, Nikki engaged Connie in general chit chat conversation, which puzzled Connie a bit. She had not known the other woman to talk for the sake of it. Curiously, it helped as it took her attention away from looking out the window, which would have made her feel totally weird. Once these streets were totally unremarkable inner city streets but this time, they felt as if they were a distant memory brought to life where the scenery was in its proper place but she wasn't. It was only when they approached St. Mary's hospital that Connie realized that Nikki had sought to distract her attention from what lay ahead of her. She had to hand it to Nikki, the woman was smart and kindly disposed to her.

Karen looked with bemusement at the car park, which had an assortment of directions to different wings of St. Mary's. She wasn't sure which way to go. Connie dragged a fragment of memory from that other life she had led and leaned forward to call out to Karen. "You can park in the space marked medical director's space - it's free at the moment. Drive straight ahead to the end and you can't miss it," she called out with a wavering attempt at her normal certainty of manner which her role at St. Mary's had engendered.  
"It's all right, Connie. We'll look after you," Nikki said, her voice melting with tenderness.  
"Nikki's right," cut in Karen cheerily as she manoeuvred the car into the space. "We don't take crap from anyone and, remember, we've got a New York cop and a shit hot American pathologist to keep us company"  
Tears welled up in Connie's eyes as she felt the sensitivities of these two women supporting her. Nevertheless, it wouldn't be easy as she was conscious that her other wrist would shortly be padlocked to Karen's. She smiled weakly back at them. After they got out of the car, Karen waved to attract Kay's attention and the man who must be the archetypal American cop. They strode over to join them.

"Am I lucky to be surrounded by all these good looking dames? Mmm mmm." Marino exclaimed, catching sight of four very attractive women in their different ways. It gave him a definite ego boost. While Kay sighed under her breath and rolled her eyes upwards to the heavens, the women exploded in laughter at Marino.  
"I'm sorry, ma'am. You must be Connie Beauchamp. Captain Pete Marino at your service," Marino continued straining at the seams in delivering his best possible display of good manners. If he had a hat to remove with a flourish, he would have done.  
"So you're the top American cop?" Nikki enquired, diplomatically shaking him by the hand.  
"Yeah well, we try to live up to our reputation. I don't take nothing for granted till the Doc has checked out the scene. Everything's up for grabs. You don't get the right answers till you get to ask the right questions." The other women sat up and took notice of the sharp observation and reasoned to themselves that Kay wouldn't have chosen this man to help out for no good reason. "Perhaps we'd better be getting on," Karen suggested quietly. She knew very well just why Connie wasn't in a mood to hurry.

This was the part of the visit that Connie had been dreading. She prayed that St. Mary's would be quiet at that moment but her sense of realism told her better. She paused, took a deep breath and entered the foyer, in the center of the group who appeared on first glance to be protecting her rather than guarding her.

Whichever dump you go to, Marino thought, there's always some asshole on the desk to report to, spotting the woman behind her desk with unfailing accuracy. Marino determinedly strode a little ahead of the others to reception. She was tapping away on her keyboard with one finger and seemed to studiously ignore him. For once, Connie was not in the mood to throw her weight about and the other women waited politely for the receptionist to finish her task. Not so, Marino. After trying to say 'Say, ma'am" a couple of times, his position of leader of the pack' prompted him to take sterner action.

"Hey, how do we get served in this joint? Do we have to wait for ever?" he complained loudly, making Kay visibly wince. I can't take him anywhere, she thought. It had the desired effect as it jerked her out of her automated routine and take notice, much to the suppressed grins behind him.  
"Captain Marino of the Virginia State Police to report to you to escort Mrs. Beauchamp to the crime scene," he followed up in tones cross between that of an army soldier on the parade ground and him ordering a takeaway. "Karen Betts, Governing Governor of Larkhall prison, Nikki Wade, wing governor same place, George Channing QC defending barrister , Kay Scarpetta, Chief Medical Officer of Virginia State and Connie Beauchamp who you all know who she is. May we pass?" she finished with an icy smile on her face.  
Jesus, this dame don't take no prisoners, Marino thought as the woman jumped to it. "George was grinning broadly at Marino's outrageous antics and even Connie smiled faintly.

As they passed into the hospital, Connie's spirits plummeted. A wide-eyed Jess Griffin came in sight, completely struck for words. Normally, Connie would have greeted her with that air of command but for now, she was a prisoner and even a lowly nurse had her freedom and livelihood. For Jess to say nothing, only made her feel worse. Next in line was Chrissie Williams who gave her a faint smile. There had been no love lost between the two of them. She had always held her own over the other woman but now she felt pathetically inadequate, the handcuffs pinning her down.  
"Morning, Mrs. Beauchamp," came Chrissie's voice. Was there something of a triumphal undertone in her voice?  
"Morning, Chrissie," came her faint reply.  
"Just keep going and don't give anything away to that frightful woman. Appearance is everything," murmured George in Connie's ear. Connie paced onwards, step at a time, her head downcast. By some bad luck she looked up just when Nick Jordan strode into view traveling the opposite way. A definite smirk twisted his face but then again, he had always unswervingly looked after number one. He didn't need her patronage right now and made that abundantly clear.  
"Two new accessories, Mrs. Beauchamp?" he asked sarcastically before running into a glare from Karen. The others haughtily ignored him and Marino decided against making any wisecracks. He had thrown his weight around quite enough so far.

"Mrs. Beauchamp? I do hope you're being treated well. This place doesn't seem the same without you," exclaimed Donna Jackson. These were the first thought that came up off the top of her mind and it had more than one meaning which Connie's faint smile showed that she was aware of. Her eyes were wide open and she had put two and two together. Despite her propensity to gossip, she could feel Connie's downcast spirit from ten feet away.  
"Thank you, Donna. It's nice to hear some words of kindness," came Connie's reply in slightly artificial tones. Deep down, she was almost embarrassed and incredibly grateful at the same time. Donna's good wishes mattered an incredible amount when, once, it wouldn't have greatly mattered at all.  
"It won't be long before you're back"  
"I hope so, Donna and thanks. It means a lot to me"  
Connie would have waved slightly as she moved on but her hands were pinioned to her sides. She smiled more freely as she passed on. It didn't take too many paces for her to come across a sight more precious to her than anything. It was a testimony towards what she'd achieved in life. "Can I go into my office?" Connie asked in almost pleading tones. She nearly used the word 'old' to describe it until she realized the implications. Even the outside door was unbearably nostalgic to her.  
"Maybe later, Connie." Karen said softly. She took real pity on the other woman who was clearly feeling her embarrassment. Walking passed the door to Connie's office, they entered the high dependency unit for both Keller and Darwin, and made straight for the sealed off side room, the scene of all Connie's nightmares. Karen and Nikki were instructed to wait outside, as George, Kay and Marino accompanied Connie inside. "We'll both be here if you need anything," Nikki promised her thoughtfully. "I'll look after her," George promised in her turn. "You're all being so nice to me," Connie said almost in wonder at the kindness and generosity surrounding her. Once inside the room, Kay began unpacking the luma-lite, explaining to Connie why it was needed. "If there's anything there to find," She told Connie. "We'll find it." "You can be sure of that," Marino said, handing them the protective glasses, and eventually switching off the lights. 

"What we're going to do," Marino told Connie. "Is to go over the crime scene inch by inch, asking you questions as and when they arise. You okay with that?" "Yes," Connie replied calmly, reminding herself again and again that these people were here to help her, not to force a confession out of her at any cost. "And you have George with you," Marino continued. "To protect your legal rights. In other words, to make sure I don't stray off the straight and narrow." "Like that's never happened before," Kay put in as she began focusing the luma-lite. 

They were quiet for a time, Marino and Kay going over every inch of the floor, with George and Connie standing in a corner out of the way. But when they found a discarded syringe lying just under the bed where the dead woman had been found, Marino asked, "Do you remember dropping this syringe?" "No," Connie replied confidently. "I always make sure to put syringes and other medical detritus into the appropriate bin." "Now," Marino continued. "One thing we do know about this syringe, is that it was found to contain your fingerprints. Can you explain that?" "Unless someone retrieved it from the bin in order to use it on my patient," Connie replied caustically. "I couldn't possibly comment." "Which could be a possibility," Marino mused thoughtfully. "If the killer wanted to frame you in some way. So which drugs did you personally administer to this patient?" "Do you have any idea just how many patients I see every day of my working life?" Connie responded tartly. "We're not talking about the rest of your patients," Marino said slowly, as though talking to a five-year-old. "We're talking about this one. Now answer the question, what drugs did you personally administer to your patient?" "Don't browbeat my witness," George warned him firmly. "You ain't seen nothing yet," Marino promised her just as firmly. "I don't remember," Connie put in, trying to prevent an argument between them. "I would hope that information would be in Angela Masters' medical records." "Which George and I are going to go through later on," Kay said, still moving the luma-  
lite over the floor under the bed. 

"Did you at any time," Marino continued after a moment's silence. "Leave the room, leaving other staff members in charge of your patient?" "Of course I did," Connie replied disgustedly. "Once I have ascertained that my patient is adequately stable, I give instructions to my junior doctors and to the nursing staff, so that they can continue with her care. This is a perfectly normal practice, Captain." 

Taking some forceps from her bag, Kay carefully retrieved a single hair from the floor. "Is this yours?" She asked Connie, holding it up for them all to see in the ultra-violet light. "As it is dark brown and not very long," Connie replied. "I would hazard a guess that yes, it did come from my head." "And can you account for one of your hairs being present at this crime scene?" Marino asked, not letting up for a moment. "Seeing as I was in here dealing with my patient after her operation," Connie replied sarcastically. "That has to be the most stupid question I've ever heard. Yes, it is highly possible that one of my hairs was discarded inside this room." 

After putting the single hair from Connie's head inside an evidence envelope, Kay continued moving the luma-lite over the floor. When she stopped, focusing the light source on something near to the bed, Connie asked, "What have you found?" "A footprint," Kay replied a little distractedly. "But no way could it be one of yours, it's far too big. Marino, I need a photograph of this," Kay instructed, showing him exactly what she wanted to capture on film. "Which male members of staff were looking after this patient?" "As far as I can remember," Connie replied. "Only Will Curtis. He's my registrar." "That's your junior, right?" Marino clarified. "No nurses?" "I'd have to check the records to find out. You could ask Sr. Williams." Putting her head out of the door, George asked Karen to find this out. "Leaving that one for the moment," Marino continued. "Do you have any enemies within this hospital?" "How long have you got?" Connie retorted with a slight smile. "All day if I need it," Marino replied, no hint of a smile gracing his rugged features. "So, I'll ask you again, who are your enemies, either here or anywhere else?" "Well, Will Curtis would be the obvious answer," Connie told him seriously. "There might also be Mubbs Hussein, the Obstetrics and Gynaecology registrar. I unfortunately managed to break up his relationship, though that was never my intention. Then there's always Nick Jordan. When he arrived here to take over an available post of Consultant in General surgery, what he actually wanted was my own job of cardiothoracic consultant. He had previously worked here as Anton Meyer's registrar, a much coveted position." "Even I've heard of Anton Meyer," Kay put in, straightening up and switching off the luma-lite. "I've done all I can here, so we may as well have the lights back on." "Okay, so that's three people I need to interview," Marino said thoughtfully. "And those are the three that I know of," Connie replied provocatively. 

"On the subject of enemies," Marino asked her. "Can you think of anyone who may have wanted to frame you?" Connie took a few moments to consider this. "Whilst I undoubtedly have enemies in this hospital," She replied at length. "I wouldn't expect a true member of the medical profession to kill a patient just to humiliate me. No doctor worth his or her weight in gold would do such a thing." "We may have to agree to differ on that one," Marino told her honestly. "I've met enough murderers in my time to no different." "Not everyone whom you come into contact with in this life is a killer, Captain." "Who has the most to gain by framing you?" "In simple terms, Will Curtis does, as he might consider that my removal might mean him taking over as acting and eventual consultant of my department, which may or may not be his dream. What I do know however, is that when I first arrived, he certainly didn't expect his superior to be a woman." "I made the same mistake with the Doc when she first arrived," Marino replied conspiratorially, making both Kay and George smile. "So, who around here would have the technical know-how to administer a drug via the drip?" "Almost anyone," Connie was forced to admit. "Doctors, nurses, even some of the Health Care Assistants might know how to do it." "This case seems to be full of total minefields," Marino commented disgustedly. "Now, how are you in the habit of treating your juniors?" "With a combination of firmness and occasional diplomacy. Some say that I bully people. What I actually do is instruct them forcefully, something they are not always willing to accept." "Have you ever had to discipline any of your juniors?" "Again, Mr. Curtis springs to mind. There was a patient who was admitted with a raised heartbeat and chest pains, after some sort of team building exercise, and Mr. Curtis completely failed to diagnose a hole in the heart. For making such a pathetic mistake, I put him on cadaver practice for a month, or until he could prove that he was still up to the job of treating patients." "Oh, dear," Kay put in, and at Marino's look of incomprehension she explained. "Being assigned to cadaver practice, the practicing of one's skills on a dead body, is like putting a detective back into uniform." "Oh, you mean like that bitch Diane Bray did to me?" Marino clarified. "Precisely that," Kay replied. "Not something you ever want to happen, because it goes some way to shattering your belief in your own ability." "Not without good reason," Connie put in defensively. "That isn't for any of us to comment," Kay told her seriously. "I'm going to have a hell of a lot to ask this guy," Marino mused thoughtfully. "And you might want to remember that his name is actually Lord Curtis Harding," Connie told him, unable to resist giving Will just a little more humiliation than was strictly necessary. 

"After completing the operation on Angela Masters, did you close her up or did you leave that for one of your juniors to do?" "I seem to remember doing that myself on this occasion. As to why, I couldn't really tell you." "Another disagreement with Lord Curtis Harding?" Marino goaded her. "Anything's possible," Connie conceded. "And finally, what instructions did you leave for the continuing care of your patient?" "I asked for her to be given fifteen minute obs for the first two hours, and half-hourly obs after that. As to what drugs I prescribed, this will be in her records." "Which George and I are going to go through after you go back to Larkhall," Kay put in by way of explanation. "Well, that's it," Marino told a more than grateful Connie, who by George's estimation was beginning to wilt under all the verbal scrutiny. "You'd make a very good prosecuting barrister, Captain," Connie told him honestly. "Not me," Marino replied with a smile. "The kind of clothes the Doc wears wouldn't suit me in a million years." 


	18. Chapter 18

Part Eighteen 

Michael Beauchamp had known the famous saying that a week in politics is a long time but this was the first time that it reflected on him personally. It was about that long ago that he had tried to pressure his old friend Neil, to find out what the hell was going on and get him to go easy on Connie. How times had changed in so short a time. It was a revelation.

He had always been positive that there was no remote possibility that Connie was responsible of the crime she had been charged of. For one thing, it would be damned stupid of her, and there wasn't the remotest motive for her to deliberately engineer the death of a patient in her care. At the back of his mind, he was aware that Connie had that old fashioned, caring attitude towards her patient, as if something personal was invested in all her hard work. He had felt that this was a quirk of hers that he could afford to live with. True, she had a sharp eye towards furthering her career but there was a distinct difference between her approach and that of the owner of the cool ruthless, heart of glass, that Sabine woman, predatory trust manager of the very upwardly mobile, Shorecross Hospital. No matter how much Connie put on airs of cool, self-centred, cynicism, he knew that it was fundamentally an act. With him, it came natural. Up till now, his cool calculating mind had ruled out any possibility of Connie being involved, knowingly and unknowingly in the death of the patient concerned. Their partnership had always been rock solid and he had thought that all they just needed to do was to hold their nerve in this tricky moment.

It was only at the weekend when he had time for reflection that he started to question his own judgment. From what he had heard from his old friend, Neil, the prosecution wasn't going to pull its punches. He began to sense that it wasn't necessarily certain that Connie was going to get out of this one. After all, any hint of misconduct in the medical profession did not go down well in public opinion, least of all a jury. Years of political scandals had educated the public to cynically view of them as all out for their own interests but the NHS still bathed its practitioners in an altruistic aura, which made life so much easier to entrepreneurs like him within the field. It was not so much what Connie may or may not have done but that the phrase, mud sticks, came into his mind. He had to build his own emergency escape from the situation.

Michael took a sip of the whisky and soda and the warm glow made him feel thankful for spotting the trap that he had nearly fallen into. It might be the case that he should break free of their merger of convenient interests and go it alone. After all, he had all the contacts he wanted at higher level and Connie made for attractive window dressing at this level, despite her undoubted gifts at the operational level and a modicum of business talent. He posed the possibility that his destiny and Connie's were separable. Once that question was asked, the solution was obvious.

After all, if he signals to Neil that he is happy for justice can take its course, then he can sit back and let justice take its course. In fact, if he dropped a discreet hint to Neil that Connie was expendable in the grand scheme of things, he was sure that she would be suitably jettisoned from his life like excess ballast so that he could cruise safely onwards to future prosperity. In the bigger picture, the Ministry for Health could conduct a self-  
righteous campaign to remove the rare wrong doers from its midst and emerge with its reputation, much enhanced. He would both look after his own skin and capture the moral high ground. All he has to do is to demonstrably distance himself from Connie and the very means of achieving this goal was within his grasp.

"I can tell you that the judges of this country have got a badly deserved reputation for being stuffy and old fashioned. Take John Deed. I can tell you that he's as virile and as modern minded as any man that I've ever met." Connie had laughed at him confidingly one evening when they both had had a bit too much to drink one evening when the lights had turned down low.

"Wasn't he the judge in the trial that you were prosecution witness for? That's sailing a bit close to the wind." he had probed in reply.  
"He's got a masterful hand on the tiller, I can assure you, Michael."

Yes, he had remembered that cosy evening chat, comparing each others' temporary partners. That was the way they lived their lives at the time but this is today. It was all very convenient the way the opportunity dropped into his hands. Instinct told him that his revelation might be welcome news in the right quarters. His mind was made up. He had a handy little flat in London, which made for a very comfortable bachelor flat where he did his entertaining. It looked like this was going to become his home, full time.

He set off in his car and made his way to their house. It seemed as quiet as the grave as there was no human spirit in it to give it some life. He picked up the surprisingly few letters that had landed on the front doorstep and went upstairs to his bedroom, manhandling his large wheeled suitcase. He felt as if he was an intruder and walked very lightfootedly. It was all like an extended version of when he went away for business events except that this was a much longer term affair. He carefully selected a few CDs ,personal possessions, shoes and socks as a solid underlayer, and padded them on top with his favourite suits and shirts. Everything was complete. There wasn't much of his world that ever there at the house that really mattered. The house was one of those modern creations, which had been decorated in the latest uncluttered, functional style. Not for him was the wall to ceiling bookcase with a lifetime of mental exploration set out upon the shelves, of volumes which had been lovingly creased by much contemplation. For him, what presence there was in his house was easily taken away without sparing a backwards glance. Once in his home, he could feel himself safe and secure, once again. 


	19. Chapter 19

A/N: This chapter is jointly written.

Part Nineteen

As they exited the side room, Ric came towards them. "Connie," He said, standing in front of her. "How are you?" "As well as can be expected," Connie told him evasively. Then, looking between Nikki and Karen, Ric asked, "Please can I take Connie for a cup of tea, just to the break room on the ward?" "Better still," Connie suggested. "My office." "I don't see why not," Karen replied, getting the same feeling as she had all that time ago when she had taken Yvonne to the pub after visiting Ritchie. "But if you do a runner, both Nikki and I will lose our jobs." "Don't worry," Connie assured them with a soft smile. "I won't." She knew just how much these two women had done for her this day, and she wasn't about to abuse it. "Maybe we can go and get a coffee," Marino suggested to the others. "Before I get down to the real business of the day, questioning Mrs. Beauchamp's enemies." "That sounds ominous," Donna said in passing. "Hey," Marino said, stopping Donna in her tracks. "While these two beautiful ladies are going through the boring stuff of medical records, perhaps you'd be kind enough to show me around the hospital. There's three people I have to question, and it's not as if I know where to find them all." "It'd be a pleasure," Donna replied with a broad smile. "I'll okay it with our Matron over there," She said, gesturing to where Chrissie sat behind the nurse's station of Darwin. "And I'll be ready to escort you when you get back from your coffee." "Any chance he gets he'll smile at a pretty face," Kay said in an undertone to George, as Marino walked off in the general direction of the canteen, seeming to know instinctively where to find his next fix of caffeine. 

Sure enough, Marino's instinct served him well. It wasn't a cup of real American coffee, he mused, but it would do. It bothered him that he would need a very large dragnet if Connie has the number of enemies that she says that she has. He threw the empty carton into the waste bin and was on the point of lighting a cigarette until he spotted the 'no smoking sign.' Goddamn health freaks, he muttered to himself, they're out to take over the planet and spoil everyone's fun. He soon cheered up when Nurse Jackson reappeared and escorted him to the break room. As he entered, Tom smiled briefly at him and indicated the presence of the younger, spruce looking man. Will Curtis threw him a questioning look. "You'll probably understand that I'm here to sit in on this interview as Will Curtis's senior to see fair play. It is normal procedure at this hospital." "No problems, Tom. He'll get a fair deal from me same as anyone else."

Marino casually drew up a chair the other side of the Formica table where Will sat, waiting impassively, Inwardly his broad Bronx accent perturbed Will as he had reckoned on the familiarity of an English policeman. He glanced from side to side, beneath lowered eyelids.

"It's a bit unusual, being interviewed by an American cop. I wouldn't have thought that you would be allowed near this case"  
"Well, ain't that just where you've got it so wrong. For your information, Connie Beauchamp's defence team have had the intelligence to call in the finest medical examiner that there is. I go with her as part of the deal so I get to ask questions that your folks have missed out on"  
An electric air of tension sprang up immediately. Will's haughty supercilious nature bridled at this loud, uncouth American slob while Marino got needled by this stuck up English asshole who looked down his nose at him. He vaguely remembered his grade school teacher telling him about those guys from Boston who dumped all that tea in the harbour and had themselves a real ball. They obviously did it to give a kick in the ass to guys like this lord. He had met a whole lot of English people who had highly impressed him by their sharp intelligence but this guy was just a stuffed shirt. Just give him a poke with a pin and all the stuffing would leak out of him. He wanted to move his light chair and turn it round back to front in classic American cop style but declined to in deference to Tom. He was similarly thwarted in his desire to take a long drag on his cigarette and exhale a long plume of smoke in his face. The combination of that made him really mean and nasty.  
"And you really think that you'll get to the truth"  
"Sure as hell I will. I've got questions to ask you, a lot of questions, some that you sure as hell won't like but I'm not here to take care of your ego"  
"I've got nothing to hide,' Will said edgily. "So, your Royal Highness, Lord Curtis- Harding, it's a real honour to interview you, Marino sneered with heavy sarcasm."Perhaps I ought to ask for your autograph on the way out"  
"How do you know my name?" Will asked, his face pale with anger as his voice was tight. Only Connie could and would have told him that one. "There's a whole bunch of things I get to know. I don't become captain just by filling in forms"  
"I insist on having a lawyer present. I know my rights"  
"If you're innocent, whaddya need a lawyer for? You got Tom here's who's a real straight guy." "Believe it or not, Captain Marino is only here to ask you a number of questions to clarify who was where at the time the crime was committed. Like the rest of the human race, he's a relative stranger to English hospitals but he does need to ask a lot of questions to get a handle on this place. When you're ready, Will."

That quiet intervention told Marino that Tom guy could have had an alternative career in the diplomatic service. The way he was all things to all people was real smart and it got Marino to cool it, curb his obvious prejudices and get down to business.

"I need to get a picture of what the hell was going on, you know the usual stuff, like motive, method and opportunity. For a start, you tell me and tell me straight how you get on with Mrs. Beauchamp"  
"My relationship with her was thoroughly professional"  
"That ain't the question I asked." Marino retorted while Tom winced with embarrassment. "I mean personal stuff. Did you like her, love her, hate her or couldn't give a damn about her. You must have some kind of feelings. You strike me as an intelligent guy so let's hear you talk." "I had my disagreements with Mrs. Beauchamp. While she is a talented surgeon, she could be intolerant and autocratic and I resented that"  
Marino leaned back in his chair with a smile. He was getting somewhere.  
"This leads me to my next question. Have you ever been disciplined by her?" "Only once. For a minor mistake I made in a diagnosis. She put me on practicing with cadavers"  
"You mean stiffs"  
Marino didn't really need to ask the question as he half knew but the words popped out of his mouth like they always did. He got a nod in response.  
"Tell me something for an intelligent man who gets around the hospital. In your opinion, is she fair minded with her staff"  
"That's a good question," Will said slowly as it had never crossed his mind before, having been absorbed with his own feelings of injustice. "You might say that she gives other staff an equally rough ride though I suppose she goes easier on more experienced staff"  
"You mean the better and more experienced the doctors are, the more she respects them and she chews out new doctors who do any sloppy work"  
The words took Will aback. He had not been prepared for that very penetrating riposte which caught him on the back foot. "You know, Lord Curtis-Harding, you've talked about her as just one of the guys, as if she hasn't got a good figure. That really interests me. Let me ask you another question, do you fancy her"  
"To some men, she could be said to be an attractive woman," Will answered in the most affectedly dispassionate tone of voice.  
"You're a real straight regular guy. I like that. Let me put it this way, have you ever slept with her"  
"Definitely not," Will snapped back. "Has she ever pursued you"  
Will looked like a cornered rabbit as Marino's relentlessly accurate questioning steadily pinned Will down. Tom sat back in fascination as he admired the astute way that Marino pursued the truth. He had that knack of putting the interviewee off his guard and suddenly unveiling his sharp intelligence. He was as professional in his field as Tom was in his and was likewise a very likeable loose cannon.  
"There was an incident when she led me on and then turned her back on me as if to laugh in my face," came the reluctant reply, as Will turned red in the face, his voice choked with emotion.  
"Then why do you think she went after you?" "I have never really understood Connie. She used her femininity in that way to throw me, to add me to her no doubt long line of conquests. I know that I wasn't special to her"  
Will stared at his feet, feeling as if he'd been put through a wringer. What made it worse was that he'd been taken apart by someone who he regarded as his social inferior. That wasn't the way things were supposed to go. In his time in the army, he had been used to rapping out orders to men like him who obeyed him without question. He really wondered at this moment why he had ever walked down Civvy Street. Where had that got him? "You really don't like her, kid." Marino said at last after allowing him time to think.  
"That is the understatement of the century," Will answered shakily as his emotions churned up his insides. "You've just described her as some sort of temptress. That can't be the whole picture so just how professional is she when she deals with her patients?" "I can't say that I've ever seen any inappropriate behaviour. She is conscious of her position as cardio thoracic surgeon. She's too ambitious to put her head on the chopping block." "So doctors are fair game. Sounds kinda strange, don't you think"  
"I can only tell you what I've seen and heard"  
"Eventually," Marino retorted before pausing just long enough to let this guy wonder what was coming next. He thought that a veiled accusation of dishonesty would rattle this English lord. He was surprised by the vehement reaction.  
"You obviously think that I've got something to do with the crime? You've been insinuating that from the moment that you stepped through the door. You're like some Marshall from the Wild West"  
"Why shouldn't you be?" drawled Marino, his bright eyes fixed upon this man. "I did my bit to help make a card for Connie after she was arrested. I took pictures of all of us to go with the card for Connie. I wouldn't do that if I hated her enough to frame her"  
"Now ain't that cute. You're really breaking my heart." "Marino," Tom said quietly.  
"I know, I know. Skip that last remark of mine"  
It angered Will more than anything else how Marino deferred to Tom but obviously wanted to walk all over him. Marino paused to consider his next line of enquiry.

"So just how jealous are you of her position? I mean, it must be hard for a lord like you working for a woman. Doesn't sound right from what I've heard of your class system"  
"I live in modern times and I have to prove myself by my ability. Whether I am jealous or not isn't the question. I don't feel confident enough to take her place so I had better just wait to get more established and then I'll tell you how I feel"  
This English guy is weird, reflected Marino. You ask him a direct question and he talks back as if he's describing the weather. He can't see that he's telling me everything I want to know. Mentally, he ran through the pattern of the replies and put even odds on him finding the right guy. He was as shifty as hell but that wasn't enough to stick him in a court of law.

"Let's skip the fancy psychology stuff. I want to know if you were involved in the operation on Angela Masters, and at any time afterwards. Don't even think of holding out on me because if you are, I'll find out"  
"I helped out Mrs Beauchamp with the operation as her junior," Will said shortly.  
"Willingly"  
"Only because she demanded that I do so. As a junior registrar, you don't have the choice. She did the main work and I just did as I was told which wasn't much"  
"That's real convenient"  
"No, it was usual. She makes it very clear that she's in control. She even closed up the operation afterwards"  
"Was that usual"  
"Sometimes she did and sometimes she didn't"  
"And did you hang around afterwards"  
"No, I didn't. I remember that Mrs. Beauchamp was at her most overbearing that day and I got out as soon as I could"  
"And did you at any time have anything to do with the patient afterwards"  
"Not that I can remember," Will said slowly after some deliberation." Of course, I have a lot of patients to operate on so I cannot be definite and the operation was a standard hole in the heart operation"  
"It ain't such a long time ago," objected Marino.  
"In a hospital, a week is a long time," came the confident reply. Marino came to a stop. He needed time to think over his position. Gut instinct was giving him mixed messages.  
"Have you got any more questions"  
"No Mr. Curtis. I think I've got to hear everything I want to know. I wouldn't want to keep you from your duties. You can go"  
Will looked round, completely dazed. It seemed a long time since he entered the room. He intercepted the glance from Tom and scurried out of the room. 

In Connie's office, Ric was sitting on the leather sofa, and Connie was prowling thoughtfully around the room. "How was the questioning?" Ric asked, taking a swig from his mug of tea. "Well, one thing I will say for Captain Pete Marino," Connie replied, "is that he certainly knows how to do his job. He left absolutely no stone unturned while he looked for the answers. I'm just thankful that he's on my side and not their's. One other consolation is that Will is going through the wringer just as I did. It might serve to bring him down a peg or two." "And how's prison?" Just for a moment, Connie's face fell, showing her inner torment even though she refused to voice it. "Oh, it's all right," She replied noncommittally. "I suppose it could be a hell of a lot worse." She said this in such a flat tone of voice, that Ric immediately knew that she was hiding an enormous amount from him. Putting his mug down and getting up from the sofa, Ric moved to stand in front of her, stopping her in her tracks. Resting his hands on her shoulders, he said, "It isn't a crime to admit that you're finding all of this incredibly difficult. Nor is it a crime to admit that you need people." "But that's not what I do, is it," Connie retorted defensively. "It's just not how I do things. To admit that I need someone to help me through this, well, that just doesn't feel like the Connie I'm used to seeing in the mirror every day." "Connie," He said, slowly enclosing her in his arms. "No matter what happens to you, you will always be the most beautiful, confident and accomplished woman I have ever known. Please, try never to lose sight of that. I will be with you every step of the way. That is, if you still want me to be." "Of course I do," Connie told him with a slightly shaky smile, thinking of the small yet growing life, resting safely inside her womb. This was a life that Ric, its father, didn't yet know about. But this was another quandary for another day. "You are currently doing me more good than all the rest put together," She kindly assured him. "George is being a perfect angel, and both Kay and Marino are taking my case in their professional stride, but you, and the thought of the friendship we have, and which is still waiting for me on the outside, well, that's what's really keeping me going. During all the sleepless nights, when all I can hear is other prisoners shouting to each other, I think about the times that you and I have had together. Last March after my argument with George, you picked me up again when I was really at quite a low ebb. So, don't ever doubt that you are doing enough for me, because I can promise you that just by being the man you are, you are doing more than enough for me. I couldn't want for any more solid support than I know I have now." 

Marino wandered down the corridor with a thoughtful expression on his face and did his best to be polite to Nurse Jackson who was clearly in her element. The kid is all right, he thought and made for pleasant company as she led them to yet another hospital wing.

"You're not going to keep Mubbs Hussein too long. You can ask all the questions you want as I want to get to the bottom of this one. I've got operations to cover. I don't know how American hospitals are but, over here, we're rushed off our feet." Owen explained to the other man.  
Marino liked this guy immediately. He radiated authority and was as straight and no nonsense. He walked and talked like a New Yorker except that he had a British accent. "No worries, Owen. I don't hang around"  
"People have been unsettled here. Someone's lying round here and I don't like working with someone I don't trust"  
"Believe me, I'll work my butt off to crack this one. I wouldn't want to work with a crook in my precinct either." Owen said more as Marino's heartfelt answer gave him confidence. He was interested to see how Marino would shape up in action. They silently walked onwards to a spare room while Mubbs trotted nervously behind.

"So, you want to ask me who I think killed Angela Masters?" Mubbs asked with false bravado, while Owen watched the proceedings intently.  
"I've been hearing mighty interesting stories round here and I've learned a lot. I've got only a couple of questions to ask you. Have you ever had an affair with Mrs. Beauchamp?" Mubbs opened and closed his mouth silently while sweat beaded his forehead. "I don't know what you mean," came the foolish answer while Owen visibly winced at the absurdity of the reply. He expected Marino to bite the other man's head off in one snap. He wasn't disappointed.  
"First thing you gotta learn, I don't like no one playing stupid with me. You got ears, so you gotta talk"  
"I had a couple of one night stands. They didn't mean anything"  
"To you or Mrs. Beauchamp"  
"Well, both of us I think. We're mature adults"  
Out of the corner of his eye, Marino noticed the twitch on Owen's face. It confirmed his suspicions. "So who broke it off, you or Mrs. Beauchamp"  
"Mrs. Beauchamp," came the very reluctant reply. It damaged his image as a smooth talking lover. He wasn't supposed to be the one who got dumped.  
"So why screw around in the first place when you had a happy family to go home to"  
"Errr, Rosie, Rosie Sattar and I had emotional problems. She has two children from a previous marriage who didn't take too well to a new man in her life. We were going through a difficult patch and Connie…Mrs. Beauchamp is an attractive woman. I wasn't sure what I wanted in a woman"  
Marino twitched his head around with disgust as if something was irritating the skin on his neck. "This ain't no soap opera. You work together so you tell me how you get on with Mrs. Beauchamp professionally?" Jesus, this cop takes no prisoners, Owen thought with real respect while Mubbs was visibly sweating as he was trying to frame an answer. For a man who was accustomed to glib talk covering up a multitude of sins, this American cop was making him feel frighteningly vulnerable, that his story didn't hang together. 

"I respect her abilities and I wouldn't question her judgment no matter how demanding she can be. I have to get along with her"  
"But she don't have to be best buddies with you"  
"She wants us to do as we're told." "So are you still with Mrs. Sattar"  
"We split up when the baby we were expecting died"  
Marino paused. He had to wait till he got his violently conflicting emotions under control, of sympathy and disgust.  
"So did this or anything else give you reason to make her your enemy?" "I blamed her for breaking up our relationship but later on came to feel that I couldn't blame her. Life has to go on. It's what I do, working in the maternity ward"  
"Just out of interest, why do you do this job? "I like helping to give birth to new life. My job gives me meaning. Let's face it, there's not much else that does that for me." For the first time, Marino looked at Mubbs with some measure of respect. After all, this guy worked in a hospital and did a job he respected no matter what sort of creep he was in private life. The guy ain't all bad but he couldn't afford to go soft on him. He wasn't out of the frame.  
"I really believe you do, Mr. Hussein…..one last question and then I'm done. I'm asking everyone this one, so you tell me if you were you anywhere near the scene of the crime"  
"I can't remember for sure but most of my work is on the maternity ward"  
"OK, you can go. I ain't taken up too much of your time, both of you"  
"You don't mess about, Mr. Marino. I'll take Mubbs and tell Nurse Jackson that she's wanted"  
"Thanks, pal," Marino grinned appreciatively which made Owen prick up his ears. That was one of his favourite expressions.

Once again, Nurse Jackson led him efficiently around St. Mary's, left here and right there and up a flight of steps until she greeted a powerfully built man with sharp eyes. He gave off an impression of strength, which put Marino immediately on his guard even though he politely agreed to go into a spare room.  
"One of your seniors can sit in with you like the other two guys I've interviewed," Marino offered helpfully.  
"Thanks but I don't think that will be necessary"  
This guy's either totally confident or totally guilty, Marino thought as he settled himself into his seat.

"I've checked out your background like I've done with the others and you interest me"  
"I'm glad I still have some fans," Nick retorted, smiling with everything but his eyes. "Me, I take people as I come and as a police captain in Virginia State, you can take it that I've been around"  
"That's good as I wouldn't want to be interviewed by a novice." "Good, so my first question is this. Why are you working in general surgery, when I've heard you trained under the leading cardio thoracic consultant in this country"  
"I moved to another hospital to broaden my experience and came back here when a consultant job came up. You have to take what you can get"  
Marino studied this guy's body language very closely. He had to admit that this guy was combative. It felt like stalking a dangerous tiger out in the open, one that could lash back if he made the slightest false move. The opening skirmishes certainly put him on his mettle and he had to admit that this guy's air of nonchalance in reply to his last question was very convincing.  
"Now, my job in Virginia State takes me round hospitals and I just know that there's a pecking order in the medical profession. Now I'm good at asking questions and Mrs. Beauchamp has told me one hell of a lot about how this joint works out. I just know that you've stepped away from the real glamour side of hospital work"  
"Whatever you want to believe. I made the right choices"  
"Just how badly do you want Mrs. Beauchamp's job"  
Nick Jordan smiled broadly at this American cop's quick riposte. He shifted his position in his chair and laid his hands on the Formica table.  
"I'll be frank with you, captain. I'm an ambitious man and I can see that my game plan would see her job in my sights. I'm an extremely talented surgeon and I've every right to be ambitious"  
"I've met guys like you before." Marino said slowly, with an edge to his tone that he couldn't suppress. "Deep down inside, you really don't like the British, do you"  
That rapier thrust from Nick Jordan temporarily floored Marino. In his redneck days as a New York cop a long time that may very well have been true. He had had his doubts about other parts of America, and as for the rest of the world, well, they had been damned foreigners. With an effort of the will, he dragged himself back through his period of tutelage and enlightenment under the doc and realised how he'd changed. It comforted him at that moment. He pushed that line of thought forward to think of those flesh and blood English people he'd come to respect and, shaking his head, he denied and refuted to himself this guy's dangerous insinuation. "I don't like crooks period. It's my job to catch them. Now you tell me just what would you be prepared to do to get her job? Like you said, you're very ambitious"  
"Nothing criminal, I assure you if that's what you're thinking of," Nick Jordan replied smoothly.  
"Now why should you think in criminal terms"  
"I used to play Cluedo avidly when I was a kid. The habit sticks in my mind. Anyway, to answer your question, the NHS is an organisation where people move around. I can see that Connie has a talent for hospital organisation and was able to rise further. I wouldn't go beyond proving my capabilities and seizing the chance when it was offered to me. I don't go in for false modesty"  
Marino gave up pursuing the matter after Nick Jordan's clever exercises in being polite and combative at the same time. His head was starting to hurt and he needed to mull things over. He had asked all the questions he could think of. " Let's get to the facts. Can you tell me just what were you doing during the day of the 7th of August when Angela Masters was operated on"  
"Let me see, captain. You must know from your experience how busy consultants are so remembering one day to the other isn't that easy. As far as I remember, I performed a kidney transplant, a bowel resection and a radical mastectomy. Those operations certainly kept me busy enough." "Were you at any time near to the crime scene"  
"I may have been," Nick replied in a maddeningly slow fashion." My work takes me round St. Mary's quite a bit so I dare say that I passed by it." "And what about the next couple of days till the death of Angela Masters"  
"My answer is the same again. I can't think specifically but I tell you what. If I think of anything that I've forgotten, I'll be sure to let you know"  
The guy maintained his smile right to the very end, Marino thought ruefully as he shook his hand. He had to conclude that either this man is the coolest criminal that ever lived or else the guy is normally like this at his job. He let Nick Jordan leave the room with a spring in his step and waited for Nurse Jackson to fetch him back to wherever the hell he started from in the first place. Her female company and inconsequential chatter was very reassuring at this moment.

When all the others had dispersed, both George and Kay walked over to the nurses' station of Darwin. "Can I help either of you two?" Chrissie asked politely, at the same time tapping away at the computer. "We need to see Angela Masters' medical records," George informed her. "I'm afraid I can only allow you to look at them here," Chrissie replied, getting up from her chair. "I don't have the authority to allow you to take them away with you." "Who would have that authority?" George asked, determined to go all the way to the top if she had too. "In the normal state of things, you would need to approach the Medical Director, but as she is otherwise engaged at the moment, you'll need to seek the permission of the acting Medical Director, Tom Campbell-Gore." "And where is Tom to be found?" George asked, now more than a little relieved that she would be dealing with someone she did at least know for such a delicate matter. "He's currently sitting on Captain Marino's interview with Will Curtis. So if you would take a seat over there, I'll get Tom to come and see you when he's free." 

When Tom eventually emerged, Chrissie informed him of what George and Kay wanted, and he came straight over. "No problem, Ladies," He said in greeting. "Anything for my favourite lawyer and pathologist. All you'll need to do is to fill in and sign a form saying why you want to take the records of Angela Masters away with you, plus where you will be taking them, which I suspect may be out of the country. Is that right, Kay?" "Absolutely right," Kay told him with a smile. "I want a chance to look through them at my leisure. If you take time over something like this, there's no telling what could be found." 


	20. Chapter 20

Part Twenty 

"You want me to use my contacts among the POLEs so that you can try the Connie Beauchamp case," Coope had asked John from out of the blue when she had seen his restlessness and that he had been alluding to the case all morning without coming out with it in so many words. POLE was her ironical take on the hateful acronym used by some of the more arrogant judges of her and fellow functionaries of the system of justice, meaning 'persons of low esteem.' It was partly John's appreciation of Coope's special powers and his naturally considerate nature that always stopped him from ever talking and acting in a similar fashion and fundamentally made working for him worthwhile.  
"If it's not too much trouble, Coope," John replied insincerely.  
"I'll use my contacts in the listings office to steer the case in your direction," Coope sighed. She had known very well that John had been itching to get his hands on the case and she might as well accept her destiny.

The physical appearance of the listings office was one that always bewildered the casual onlooker. It was overcrowded with stationery cupboards, racks cluttered with manilla folders and scattered with all the debris of the world of the written word. Somewhere in the middle of this mayhem, lurked a phone. Within the room, pale overworked clerks forever rushed feverishly around or else cut themselves off, with silent, obsessive intensity to the job in hand. What the onlooker failed to realize was that only they knew what purpose of every paper clip and scrap of paper. The office had been organized in their fashion since time immemorial.

On a more fundamental level, there ought to have been a grand master plan that rose above the details, the smoothly functioning hub of the legal system, which merely allocated the cases according to system. In practice, it found itself subject to the foibles of the various judges. For example, it was common gossip that Monty Everard's PA would angle for the goriest rape cases to satisfy the curious whims of Vera Everard so that she could sit in on the cases. For another, Coope would angle to select particular cases for John that had some outstanding matter of justice involved. It might happen that for some reason, the designated judge was suddenly unavailable and the curiously named 'cab rank' principle operated so that the next senior judge stepped in to fill the gap. This was as nothing to the machinations of the LCD and the feelers that they put out in their mania in having a 'safe pair of hands' to try politically sensitive cases. The clerks groaned under their breath when the arrogant, imperious, very smartly suited figure of Lawrence James put his head round the door. There they sat, marking up and labelling evidence and clipping their files together, preparing the necessary witness summons and the hundred and one things that made a trial run smoothly. He strolled round the place as if he owned it. He never knew their names but acted as if they were part of his furniture. They fumed silently but got on with their jobs. For all these reasons, the system that was supposed to run by rota, never really operated that way. It had lurched along according to particular day to day compromises between powerful opposing, cross cutting forces and would doubtless continue to do so into the future.

"A little bird told me that the Connie Beauchamp trial is listed for the Old Bailey," Coope had enquired of the short thin harassed looking man who had stared back over the spectacles that had slid down his long, thin nose.  
"And how did you hear this one, Coope. A crystal ball? No one would have a cat's chance in hell in knowing until the papers come here"  
"So you don't know then," Coope's glib tones had rolled smoothly out of her mouth.  
"That's not to say I do and not to say that I don't," the man had snapped back pedantically, tempted by his pride in his position of the keeper of secrets.  
Coope had suppressed a smile as he had told her everything she wanted to know. It meant that the trial was some way off the preliminary arrangements like booking ahead the court and lining up the judge. Her subsidiary goal had been achieved in sensing out the timescale.  
"I hear that there is a lot of competition amongst the judges to get the case"  
"I suppose you've been sent by your lord and master to get the case steered in his direction. You're jumping the gun a bit"  
"He did express an interest in the case, yes"  
"I suppose that if I say no to you, then his lordship will be down on my back." "He is rather persistent in wanting to reserve the case to himself. It would be easier to say yes to me. You'll only end up getting yourself into a state and all over nothing"  
It was all in a typical day's work, Coope had smiled to herself. However while Coope was focussed on reasoning with the irritable man, Monty Everard's PA had slid smoothly into the room. She had the necessary imperturbability in dealing with the often irritable Monty Everard , had drawn the obvious conclusions and slid off.

A fateful decision had been made some years ago by some fast- rising-moved-on rising star in the Lord Chancellor's Department to place Coope as John's PA. Neither he nor anyone else had anticipated the far-reaching consequences, least of all Coope or John. Before this placement, she had thought that her range of skills of quiet efficiency and diplomacy would be easily enough to equip her in her role in life. It took a little time to understand just how dangerous he was, to himself and to all around him. It was only the way the years had rolled on how she realized that she had developed the skills of a master spy, in tracking down and securing through her own network, the cases that he had particularly coveted. She had imperceptibly slipped into the role of offering her low key but influential voice in the way that he had handled his cases. Still more of a revelation was the way she had learnt to cover John from the reckless consequences of his turbulent love life, the most striking instance of which was her securing the very compromising CCTV footage of him making love to Lady Rochester on his own desk. That must have been the high point of exercising her resources but no doubt, a situation would arise which would top that one.  
When she occasionally asked herself just why she continued in this role, she concluded that she hadn't come across anyone who equalled, let alone surpassed, his public ethics while her relationship to his turbulent love life was the long suffering mother to a wayward son whose appealing blue eyes won her over on every occasion. More than anything else, Coope appreciated John's high sense of public ethics that drove him to take on the political establishment, much though she worried for him at times. More than anything else, she knew that John respected her. It was as if their two sets of skills meshed together like the perfect creation. Besides, life was never boring while he was around.

Monty had heard about this latest revelation of John's wayward behaviour far too late to immediately tackle John on the matter and was forced to stew on this over the weekend. He decided that it was more than likely that, like him, John would take advantage of the peace and quiet of the bank holiday Monday to catch up on cases in peace and quiet. Because of this long suppressed anger, he was in an unusually explosive mood as he contemplated the total lunacy of John seeking to take on the impending trial of Connie Beauchamp. Without further ado, Monty stormed out the door, paced the relatively short distance down the corridor and straight into John's chambers.

"John, a word," he said curtly. "I've heard on the grapevine that you propose to try the Connie Beauchamp case. You can't do it, John. You know her far too well." "Cant I? Just you try and stop me, Monty," John flared, responding naturally to a full frontal assault and someone telling him what to do or what not to do. He didn't know where Monty had picked up on this one but it didn't greatly matter right now. John was switched on to full aggressive defence mode of thinking, even to a fellow judge with whom he was on good terms. Then again, anyone who had been a barrister and becomes a judge has a natural verbal combative streak in him or he wouldn't have got to where he is now.  
"What are you playing at, John"  
"I never play in court. That's a very dangerous course of action. I'm always deadly serious"  
"That's not what I mean, John. I know that you have a personal stake in the outcome of the trial but you should keep your distance"  
"I want to take on this trial as I know that I can get to the bottom of it. I cannot believe that she would have deliberately taken the life of her own patient. I count Karen Betts as a friend of mine, a one time nurse. Through talking to her, I've come to understand the driving spirit amongst the medical profession and I know how grossly improbable the charge is against Connie"  
"No doubt you see yourself as the only one capable of giving justice," sneered Monty. John's attitude came over as superior and patronizing and instinct drove Monty try to knock him verbally off his smug perch.  
"Well, since you raise the matter, who am I to disagree with you"  
Monty was on the point of seeing red at this blatant insult when some unaccountable impulse reined in his own hot temper. He remembered John's sterling handling of the Barbara Mills case and had to concede that John had a penetrating, incisive mind, which was also generous towards his position as a winger. "John, just consider your position. There's such a thing as being too close to the situation"  
"Meaning, Monty"  
"You're in danger of letting your feelings of sympathy for the woman cloud your judgment or alternatively, that it may appear to be so. You know what a marked man you are. You're just asking for trouble and you'll be sure to get it." "So what else is new, Monty?" John retorted with a dismissive shrug of his shoulders. "I've long felt the heat of the devil's kitchen. It can't burn me anymore"  
"If you stop your schoolboy heroics, you'll realize that if you do go down, thanks to your foolish and unwise decision, it won't be over a matter of grand principle. Worse still, you drag down not yourself but the rest of us with you and we can ill afford that." Monty Everard retorted in controlled fury, his eyes incandescent and boring into John's. "Think what you like, Monty."

Monty let the strong emotions of sheer fury dissipate themselves and become less breathless before continuing in tones of barely restrained anger and frustration.

"I'm going now but you better think very carefully exactly what you are doing and why. I'm not acting as the lap dog of the establishment, quite the reverse. I'm giving you sensible advice with no personal stake in the matter. It's obvious that you are in a perverse and obstinate mood so I know that if I stay a minute longer, I'm in danger of doing and saying something that both of us will seriously regret"  
Monty's outstretched finger was shaking and his whole body seemed to swell inside with pent up rage. Smartly he turned on his heel and slammed John's door with a resounding thud, which shook it on its hinges and caused the sounds to reverberate down the corridor. Monty was too steamed up to care. 


	21. Chapter 21

A/N: Credits to the Virtual Guide to the Tower of London in the internet site 

Part Twenty-One

"So, you're going to see what cultural treats London has to offer? I'm sure you'll both enjoy yourselves." George said in her brightest conversational manner as she poured them an early morning cup of tea. Marino gallantly did his best in handling George's fine china cup and saucer and silver tea-spoon, when he was far more used to the utilitarian mug of coffee.  
"It would be an insult to the fair city not to take in an art gallery or a concert or both while we have the spare time." Kay enthused.  
George suppressed a grin as her sharp eyes spotted Marino's visible look of panic in his eyes. She could tell who wore the pants in this friendship. "I could recommend the Salvador Dali exhibition on the South Bank. I've been round there myself and his paintings have to be seen to be believed. They're frightfully impressive compared to the prints"  
Marino placed his cup and saucer with as much delicacy as he could summon up with only a slight rattle. It was an impressive effort, given the circumstances. "Do you want to borrow my car to get around? London taxis cost the earth. I'll take it easy at home sunbathing in the back garden and maybe do a bit of work while you're out"  
"That would be very much appreciated, George"  
She's even beginning to talk like the English, moaned Marino to himself.  
"You've been in England before, Kay so I'll leave the driving to you." George said, directing a very meaning look at Marino. She had gathered very swiftly how an American male and his set of wheels were inextricably married and how much of a show-off Marino would be in the driving seat. That's all very well, she judged, but not in her car.  
"Ain't it enough to be the all-powerful doctor lawyer Indian chief? " whined Marino the second when they had turned out of George's front drive. He could sense the culture glitter in Kay's eyes and he feared for his future. "I bet you ten dollars that the Brits don't even have a nearby McDonalds for a man to relax. My feet get tired easy"  
"It's a chance while we're over here to catch up with our cultural education. We're right on the doorstep for London"  
"What's London got that New York ain't got"  
"It's not the same for a start. It would be unthinkable to come so close to London and not take in the Dali exhibition. If that isn't to your taste, what about something thoroughly English like the Tate gallery or the British Museum"  
Marino visibly writhed as if the Mafia were threatening him with some kind of hideous torture. He could see the mischievous gleam in Kay's eyes as she saw past his first objection to her choice of gallery. "I'm too old to change, doc. I flunked art at high school. I flunked music at high school. Let's face it, culture and me ain't exactly good friends"  
"So your rock and roll records don't count as music." Put in Kay softly.  
"That ain't the same. That's real American music. That's something that's pumping back at me when I'm cruising down the interstate bypass"  
Kay's reaction was cool and unruffled. She knew very well that Marino only exaggerated the redneck inside him, the more she tried to improve his mind. The only problem was that he combined the cunning of an obstreperous teenager with the doggedness and dedication of the very fine cop that she knew him to be. Too bad that he couldn't see how good it would be for him. 

"Ain't there any of this goddamn culture that I'm going to like"  
"It's like good medicine. It'll be good for you"  
"Sure it will, doc and I bet you a hundred bucks that it tastes lousy like all 'good medicine.'" Kay paused while she considered changing her tack. It coincided with waiting for the last person in the line of pedestrians at the zebra crossing. He nipped across the road while the hungry line of cars were waiting. She reckoned that Marino's mother must have had one hell of a time years ago dealing with his boyhood illnesses judging by the extra special sneer with which he overloaded the last two words. She turned smartly to the left into a cul de sac and switched off the engine. This had to be thrashed out while they weren't moving.  
"Well, what would you like that's cultured, Marino?" Kay reasoned patiently. "Something that's got some action in it. Something with guns," Marino said at last with a strong suggestion of wise cracking, 'one upmanship' smugness in his tone of voice.  
Kay reached for her guide to London for inspiration. Culture and guns seemed like opposing concepts to her way of thinking but she was determined not to let him outsmart her. She flicked through the brochure, passed up on St. Paul's Cathedral and Royal Albert Hall until her eye lighted upon the imposing ramparts of the Tower of London. A slight smile lit her face much to Marino's discomfort. He had sneakily thought that he had set Kay an impossible task , that she'd give up in despair but he should have known better. "What about the Tower of London, Marino? It's historical which suits me and look at the picture of these cannons. They're far bigger than that Gloc of yours"  
The expression on Marino's face was a picture. He had that look on his face that betrayed the fact that his bluff had been called. He didn't know what to think or say.  
"It's a kinda oddball joint to go to. The Queen don't live there any more, doc? "  
"Relax, Marino. She finds Buckingham Palace more comfortable. Hey, listen to this. The brochure says that some parts of the Tower of London date actually back to Norman times"  
"I get it, Doc. Like it's been here a long time." "And we're going to find out more about it, won't we Marino. It's something to tell the folks back home. You could send them a postcard"  
By the way that Marino grimaced but didn't say anything, Kay realized that her enthusiasm wasn't well received. However, she knew that inwardly, he was well and truly trapped.

Marino's definition of a city was New York, He had worked a number of years for the police department. He had driven his car with total confidence into the roughest part of the Bronx but he had gladly passed up the chance to drive round London. He had solid reasons to do so from what he had seen so far. While the centre of the Big Apple was set out in a rectangular grid and made it easy to drive around, the sharp twists and turns of London streets were starting to make him feel dizzy. "Every goddamn country drives right side of the road. What's with this big difference here?' "Different country, different culture. Relax, Marino, I'm doing the driving anyway. All you have to do is sit back and take it easy"  
Marino's nerve ends were out on stalks. All his normal senses were reversed as if he were looking in a mirror. Everything felt all wrong and it made him tetchy. He was wondering what would happen when they got to be pedestrians and it would not do his rough, tough self-image good for the Doc to see that he was nervous of a little old road. He would never live it down.

"I can't figure out that goddamn screwball architect when all this asphalt got laid down. I'm used to treading power with my right foot right past some asshole of a driver who can't drive and chew gum at the same time. That don't work here, no sir. It just has to be different," he muttered under his breath. "London's a historic city, Marino. You have to understand that." He watched idly out of the passenger window and his eyes spotted the black cabs and his practiced eye saw how they weaved in and out of the traffic with perfect assurance. If they drive round London for a living, he had to respect them, especially as every one of them was undamaged. "Still, I gotta hand it to these taxi drivers even if they drive these funny black set of wheels like some kind of weird hearse. New York yellow cabs, they've got more style." As Kay stopped at the traffic lights and checked her directions, she was pleased that Marino found something to approve of. The unspoken fraternity of wheels crossed cultures and continents, she supposed.  
"Wow, those coaches are something else. That's real smart, building them two decks."

The prosaic red London bus had a long history of wending its way round the busy streets, taking consignments of people from one place to another and little did it think how strange, how exotic it looked in Marino's eyes when compared to the grey cladded Greyhound single-decker coach.

"I don't get it," came Marino's running commentary as they passed down a street full of restaurants of all sizes. "England is England, right. I thought that those guys eat roast beef and Yorkshire pudding and drink cups of tea. So what's with this Starbucks café and that Chinese joint? Don't they know who they are anymore?" "It's just that it's a cosmopolitan city. There's Chinatown in New York, for instance"  
"There ain't that many aliens doc, not even in this city"  
"So perhaps English people are more adventurous with their diet than you might think"  
"You think so? " Marino asked with genuine amazement, without his heavy-duty sarcasm.  
Kay sat back smoothly in the car and let the conversation wash over her as she passed through Leicester Square. She had to admit that driving in London and totally reversing the habits of a lifetime was harder than she made out. It was six months ago since she was in England, but she had stayed at George's house and hadn't really been let loose in the big city. Nevertheless, she gloried in driving past the famous sights of London, past Piccadilly Circus, past…….

"Ain't that Nelson's column, doc?" interrupted Marino. "If he was so damn smart, how come he let some jackass stick a column right up his ass so high no one can see him"  
"I really don't know, Marino," Kay sighed.  
She followed the road signs down the wide expanse of Whitehall and the imposing array of government offices, past the wrought iron black gates that sternly defended the entrance to Downing Street. Remembering that Marino was shortly to be force-fed large doses of English history, Kay declined to point out these features though Marino looked secretly impressed by the grandeur of the buildings. Turning sharp left into Parliament Square, to their right stood the incredibly ornate Gothic structure of the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben to its left. A shaft of sunlight illuminated its majesty. Kay had seen pictures of it and it took her aback to see it.  
"Bet you don't know where we are now"  
"Sure I know," Marino said with the enormous satisfaction of outsmarting the Doc. "It's the Houses of Parliament and that goddamn big clock on the side is Big Ben……. some place," he added laconically with masterful understatement.  
Kay just smiled to herself and drove on down the embankment. The tide was in and the rippling waters bespoke a purposeful sense of bustle and purpose. In Marino's eyes, it looked like a classier version of the Hudson River. She picked her way out of the heart of the City of London and, sure enough the huge grey ancient turreted walls of the Tower of London loomed up. To one side was the famous Tower Bridge. By sheer luck, a multistory car park jumped out at her and Kay swerved left into the entrance, indicating at the same time, which made Marino wince. After a wearisome journey to the fifth floor, Kay led the way down the none too appealing concrete staircase while Marino followed on without saying anything.

Marino proudly led the way across the road as instincts took over, automatically looking the wrong way. A blast of a car horn and a screech of tyres shocked his senses as the car swerved, the man's mouth was opening and closing as it flashed past at lightning speed.  
"Goddamn fruit loop driver. Ain't he got eyes?" Marino swore freely.  
"Which side of the road do cars drive in this country, Marino," Kay said softly.  
Marino blushed a delicate shade of red before he found a way out of his embarrassment.  
"Just testing, hey. OK, let's go and get cultured." Marino walked alongside Kay but let her just slightly lead the way. Kay smiled slightly but pretended not to notice.

It was inevitable that they would have to wait and queue up and Marino fidgeted by himself while Kay pretended not to notice. She seized the opportunity to buy a guidebook just in case her objective succeeded. She knew that Marino's natural inquisitiveness wouldn't be satisfied by her rusty general knowledge. Finally, the crowd of people moved forward and Marino suddenly saw the sharp outline of a perfectly formed double tower with a wide archway in the middle. His mouth hung open with total shock as if he couldn't believe his eyes. As they came closer, the archway seemed to lean over them and gently ushered them into a different world.  
"Jesus Christ, a real castle. I thought they don't exist outside a Hollywood." Marino exclaimed. A thoughtful expression crossed his mind as nostalgic memories of going to the pictures as a kid came back to him.  
"Hey doc, I remember Errol Flynn all the guys firing bows and arrows, hanging out in the forest and wearing those funny green stockings. Next time I saw him, the guy was on some kind of ship, firing cannons. He ended up getting knighted by that Queen Elizabeth. Of course, it ain't the same as those Wild West guys packing a real mean six shooter but I guess they didn't have the Colt 45 back then"  
Kay noted that Marino's distinguished historical authority was the late actor in films of dubious authenticity and his own equally dubious sexual morals by all accounts. Marino's key to analyzing key turning points in history obviously lay in how many corpses were strewn about on the stage. "So you're getting impressed, Marino"  
"I might be." As the procession carried on, Marino swiftly dropped his Mr. Supercool routine and became something like an excitable kid though the names and historical associations of the various sights passed him by.  
"Hey, what's that? Feels spooky. I've visited pens that give you the creeps that way." Marino jabbed a forefinger straight ahead, referring in his own imitable way to the grim American penitentiary. It pointed down to the darkened area below them, silhouetted by a set of double barred gates looking like angry teeth. It gave Kay the shivers as if once past those gates, there was no escape. This looked like the ancestor of every prison that came after it.  
"That's easily explained because this is Traitor's Gate, a one way trip from the River Thames and an execution at the other end"  
"No kidding? This dump's a real let down. It ain't as scary as its name. No dead bodies just kind of hanging around," queried Marino petulantly, switching moods arbitrarily as was his wont.  
"It was originally known as Water Gate," sighed Kay from the depths of her guide book," but was later changed when it was used as the landing for the Crown's enemies. All important prisoners entered the Tower through this gate. According to legend when Princess Elizabeth arrived on Palm Sunday 1554 she refused at first to land at the gate, angrily proclaiming that she was no traitor. A sharp shower of rain however, caused her to change her mind. Later when as Queen she visited the Tower she insisted on passing through Traitors Gate. "What was good enough for Elizabeth the Princess is good enough for Elizabeth the Queen", she is supposed to have told the Constable." "And she walked? That's real smart- or else her lawyer was," approved Marino. Marino had mixed feelings about the Bloody Tower as he peeked at the small four-poster bed with velvet drapes, the delicately carved dark oak table and chairs and the modest but clean white room. "No rats, no snakes, nothing like that?" Marino said with incredulity.  
"Sir Walter Raleigh stayed here." Quoted Kay from her guidebook, hoping to detain Marino while she breathed in the cultural enlightenment. "So what's with this guy"  
"He invented tobacco." "No shit. So he's the guy that got you hooked"  
"Well a few generations down the line, very indirectly"  
Marino's spirits rose when they got to the White Tower, that formidable foursquare central tower buttressed at each corner by a high tower. It created a look of menacing military power. He was not disappointed by what it promised. "Say, look at those suits of armour. It makes those guys kind of hard." Marino exclaimed. He eyed the shining curved metal and the way that their faces were covered. It made them look deadly, as if their shiny steel hard swords were made for killing people with. He really wanted to hold one of the swords thinking how totally lethal they looked.  
"I could scare the shit out of some of those squirrels." He muttered meditatively.  
"Marino, don't," Kay snapped.  
He turned on that disappointed little boy look and strode off enthusiastically to the adjacent room to study "the collection of hunting and sporting arms including crossbows and firearms. Here can be traced the technical advances in firearm mechanisms, from the matchlock, the snaphance and the wheel lock to the flintlock. The development of decorative techniques is also evident. Craftsmen applied or inlaid precious metals, ivory, bone and even mother-of-pearl to enhance the wood they carved and chiselled with such consummate skill; the contemporary artistic styles from the 15th to the 19th centuries can thus be compared."

The most unlikely event finally happened to Kay that day. Marino asked her if he could borrow her guidebook.

In turn, Kay was entranced by " the exquisite Chapel of St John the Evangelist" on the first floor" where the royal family and the court worshipped and where the knights of the Order of the Bath spent their vigil the night before a coronation. It is one of the most perfect specimens of Norman architecture in Great Britain." She tried to stall her enforced exit for as long as possible but Marino's enthusiasm would not give her peace.

When they came out into the courtyard, Marino was in Seventh Heaven to spy the large cannon in the yard, mounted on wheels. The brightly coloured beefeaters and the yeomen of the guards passed him by, unnoticed. Marino eyed up the line of the gun and carefully judged where the shot would fall. He was transported to another realm of existence where he could indulge his fantasies to the limit. Kay stood patiently at his side until she had a brainwave as she had spotted a building of very fine Tudor architecture, the Queen's House.

"You stay here and I'll see you here in half an hour," Kay pronounced, very loudly and clearly in the general direction of his back. "Huh?" he responded, his barely hearing ears having picked up the message.  
She was sure that she could look out her version of culture, fine paintings and the refined world of a bygone age. She felt safe to leave Marino to indulge his boyhood gun fantasies. After floating through the artistic delicacies that were offered to her, Kay walked out of the low entrance door. She crossed the square to see Marino eye the chopping block with great satisfaction.

"If I had Diane Bray and Jay Talley before me, then……." Marino said with a chuckle." Sure beats hell out of the electric chair. Too quick though"  
"They didn't always kill the prisoner with the first stroke." Kay interposed.  
"You don't say," Marino beamed with satisfaction. "That was real smart of the Brits."

Presently, both of them were starting to feel dead tired. Kay looked at her watch and she could see that visiting time was nearly up. All good things had to come to an end. She couldn't believe how Marino's attention had been captured for so long. She would never have thought it possible. Just what he had absorbed from his version of culture was something she didn't want to think too much about. She was sure that she would hear all about it before long.

"Hey doc, you drive round London real good. You must have been here before." This was the nearest that Kay would get to a compliment from Marino, she smiled wryly. In turn, Marino was puzzled how they had quickly cut through the London traffic after all the twists and turns of this morning until he put two and two together. No wonder, he called her doctor lawyer Indian chief, he reflected. He was tired yet curiously satisfied and was looking forward to George's cooking, a comfortable chair and a shot of Bourbon.  
"I don't buy all this steel and concrete crap like they have back home. Last time I went home, places where I used to hang out got trashed. Makes me sad like nothing lasts. It's different here. You can feel the history. This is all real class, like George." Marino reflected somberly and quietly as they neared their home. "What about George"  
"She's a real lady. Way she speaks, way she dresses is like something out of history but that's good. Bet you fifty bucks that her folks are just like her and the folks at the back of them. She ain't changed 'cos what went into them was built to last. It means something. This kinda changed the way I see things now. It's real strong. I trust it."

This was the first sensible comment Marino had said all day. He had finally become a cultured Anglophile in his own time and fashion. 


	22. Chapter 22

A/N: - Lyrics credited to Carl Perkins as sung by Elvis Presley - the last part is partially translated from Marino speak into C S Forester. This chapter is jointly written. 

Part Twenty Two

They were all quiet on the way to the airport, Marino because he was tired after his trip round the tower of London, and Kay and George because neither was sure how to bid the other goodbye until the trial. They had become close during the times they had spent together over the last year, and both were a little sad at having to relinquish the other's company so soon. "When will you go through the medical records?" George found herself asking, part of her wanting them to accomplish this together. "Probably not until the weekend," Kay admitted ruefully. "I'll have quite a lot to catch up on when I get back, not to mention getting my staff started on that syringe." Kay had obtained permission from the police to take the discarded syringe back to Virginia, as she wanted to get her fingerprints expert to go over it with all his skill and concentration, to see if Connie's fingerprint on the surface of the syringe were genuine. "Do you really think it's possible that Connie's fingerprint was manufactured in some way?" George asked, thinking that they were definitely clutching at straws with this one. "I learned a long time ago that anything's possible when it comes to the committing of crime," Kay replied philosophically. "So let's just wait and see. If there's something there to be found, I can promise you that we'll find it." 

When Kay and Marino had checked in their bags and received their boarding passes, they walked with George as far as the barrier where she would be forced to leave them. Putting his arms round George in an uncharacteristic display of affection, Marino said, "Take care of yourself, sweetheart, and don't let the ass-holes get you down." "I'll take your advice to the letter," She told him with a smile. "And if Kay tries to coach you as to how to behave in a British courtroom, please allow her to do so." "That's all I need," Marino replied in offended dignity. But when Kay stepped forward to give George a tentative hug, she looked sad. "Tell Connie to keep looking on the bright side," She said, her face very close to George's. "And tell her that I'm thinking of her." "I will," George responded, knowing that this was about all Connie could do, until the two people before her returned to take their place in Connie's gallery of support. 

Marino was dog tired as he sat back in the 747 that would take him back to the life he knew. The familiar stomach jerking pull as the aircraft climbed up steeply into the air, greedy for height, told him that he was leaving England but his overloaded senses told him differently. Conveniently, his seat was right next to the window so he could look down on the countryside below. There, below him, was a neat patchwork quilt of fields and woods and little roads with the occasional nearly straight line gashing its way through the countryside, the universal motorway. Just before the aircraft flew into that fluffy white bank of cloud, he saw the map of South Wales in all its cragged convolutions. When they had got to their full cruising altitude, Marino lost interest and he turned to talk to Kay. "Well, doc. That was quite some stay in England." Marino said with masterful understatement.  
"We'll be back, Marino, to give evidence at Connie's trial. "You'll get to meet everyone that I saw last time I was here because you'll be giving evidence in court"  
Marino smiled at the good news. This wasn't some one-off treat in his lifetime.  
"George is quite some lady. I'll miss her cooking"  
Kay refrained from making any comment, as she was weary. There was nothing more for her mind to occupy itself with and the journey, allowing for the five-hour time zone change was going to be a long one. The low hum, the feeling of suspension and the subdued lighting all had a gently soporific effect on them both. 

Marino floated effortlessly, suspended in space and, right below him, was a concert. Not that weird violin scraping stuff, but a real group on stage and an audience full of screaming girls. As he drew nearer, the guy out front was one of those pretty boys with long greased back ducktail haircut and a pink jacket that was way too big for him. He carried a guitar and was wiggling his hips like crazy, getting the girls going. It couldn't be, he couldn't believe it ...it was his all time hero, Elvis Presley, alive and well again. Well, today was a weird day with all those suits of armour and guns from way back in history so why shouldn't he be at an Elvis Presley concert? Didn't know how he got here but what the hell. He just wanted to float on down there and be part of it.

It gradually dawned on him this was exactly what he could be and not as a dumb spectator. He thought seriously about being Elvis as the temptation was overwhelming. His sense of reality forced him to pass up the chance. The guy was a trucker, sure enough, but his taste in clothes was a bit too fancy for him. It wasn't his style and he couldn't manage all that jiggling about though he could just about thrash his acoustic, same way as him. He looked to one side and a regular country guy was picking out neat guitar licks from that shiny electric guitar. It had to be Scotty Moore. He regretfully declined the chance to be him, as it was way too tricky for him. He didn't think how he could play that fancy stuff all night. His fingers were just too big and stiff to twiddle their way round those frets on his guitar. He'd fluff the solos, that's for sure. He considered the guy at the back who was bashing hell out of the drums but he was too far back to be of interest. Besides, D J Fontana sounded a funny kinda name. Last of all, a big built guy was plucking hell out of that big stand up bass. That was more his line and the guy looked like him. Those pumping bass lines ain't too tricky and that's what made it rock and roll. The guy was Bill Black, a no nonsense name, and he looked as if he was having one hell of a good time.

Suddenly, he was down there on stage and his left hand fingers were nimbly creating shapes while he felt his right hand fingers plucking away at those heavy strings. He felt those bass sounds vibrate through his body as he moved about on stage to the rhythm. He grinned to DJ who was pounding the drums with expert precision. It was true, rock and roll is here to stay. The boy's edgily controlled rock and roll singing summoned them to jump right in with him for the next song.

"You can burn my house, Steal my car, Drink my liquor From an old fruit jar. Do anything that you want to do, but uh-uh, Honey, lay off of my shoes Don't you step on my blue suede shoes. You can do anything but lay off of my blue suede shoes But don't you step on my blue suede shoes. You can do anything but lay off of my Blue suede shoes.

He always stretched out that song, didn't he, with that final endlessly repeated chorus, singing with his soul on fire. The guys were right behind him and they weren't no slouches either. While he was singing and playing, Bill nailed down that backbeat right along with DJ's rock solid drumming. Scotty sure as hell played a mean sounding guitar which went around and around in his head. Nothing deterred them from the task in hand and even though they were dead beat, things were looking up for the band. Next stop was a couple hundred miles down the road to another concert, endlessly traveling in a van south of the Mason Dixon line, jam packed in there with the drums, guitar cases and amplifiers and leads. 

Blue blue, blue suede shoes, baby Blue blue, blue suede shoes, baby You can do anything but lay off of my Blue suede shoes."

Right through the concert, a wall of adoring female fans went wild. Mostly, they crowded round the stage and when the song finally swung to a close, the house exploded with squeals of excitement. It was now that they really felt what a commotion their music had generated in the audience. Their music really took everyone on a trip, sure enough. If they couldn't please themselves, they couldn't please their audience, they had reasoned but they had more than that, they had real fans.

While Elvis gyrated center stage, Bill was well to the side of the stage and he couldn't help but notice the very pretty blonde with her hair pulled up in a ponytail. She wore a low cut, highly revealing top and a flared skirt. Her face was lit with excitement and while the boy did the remote untouchable routine despite the cocky grin on his face, her soft eyes looked knowingly into his own, not Elvis's. There was a glance of recognition and those well-shaped lips smiled at him. As he focused in on her, he realized with a shock of recognition that it was George. She winked at him, turned around and strolled nonchalantly away, her skirt swirling. It was one of those chance encounters in life on the road.

Back in the dressing room as they changed into casual clothes, Elvis picked up a local newspaper, glanced at the headline, laughed at it in a contemptuous way and tossed it across to Bill.  
"Elvis Presley is morally insane," the headlines screamed.  
'That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard from a so-called adult," he snorted contemptuously to Bill.  
"Well, the kids like us, Elvis. That squirrel don't matter. We'll make it big some day, just you wait and see." They had no time to lose. The four of them humped the gear into the back of their vehicle and were off down the road to the next gig. While Elvis took the wheel, Bill slumped sideways next to DJ's bass drum and, despite its uncomfortable shape, he dozed off. It had been a long day for all of them…………..

He floated effortlessly, suspended in space and, right below him lay the blue green ocean stretching away to infinity. The wind blew endless rows of furrows gently over the water and there, right below them was an old-fashioned fighting three-masted, warship of the Tudor era. It wasn't some hulking overloaded galleon but a trim fighter of a vessel, with a line of gun ports down each side that meant business. The fore and main topsails were drawn in tight while the triangular sail on the mizzen mast balanced the steering nicely. There, down on the quarterdeck, the bearded captain stood with his evident air of authority. There was something about the man's air that made him want to be him. To his delight, it suddenly occurred to him that he had that chance. This was a lifetime's unbelievable good fortune. He would once again relive history, this time one that he had recently got to admire from afar.

Feelings of grandeur sustained Marino's good feelings about himself. He wasn't some overweight policeman divorced from his wife and with a no good son whom he didn't even want to talk to the Doc about. After all, was he not Francis Drake, the terror of the Spanish Main? His feet were planted on his quarter deck, his hands gripping the rail while the mizzen sail curved tautly behind him, the Queen's flag fluttering from the top of the mast. The salt spray stung his bronzed cheeks from months at sea. He felt good about himself, and about those he commanded. The good ship "Golden Hind" was one of England's finest warships, which more than held its own even in the full fury of half a gale. In calm winds, it slipped cleanly through the water. He was out on an independent command and could take on any enemy ship that came his way. His ship was the lone policeman of the seas, his precinct stretching as far as the horizon stretched. He knew that his country and Spain weren't exactly at war but that hadn't stopped his ship being directly commissioned by the Queen to capture as much booty that his ship could hold and take it back to England. What he was doing wasn't exactly legal but he got backing from the very top. The Pope and the King of Spain might not like it but, these days, they don't count. 

He placed his telescope to his eye and, right on the horizon, he saw the topsails of a ship, which ain't one of Queen Elizabeth's. The Spanish flag was faint and distinct. It was one of those squirrel ships, which thought it'd outsmart him. They reckoned without his sharp eyes.  
"Enemy in sight, bearing ninety degrees so jump to it and shake out the mainsail and foresail," he shouted.

In their disciplined way, seamen swarmed up the rigging to obey his orders and the ship cut more fiercely through the water. On his order, the helmsman turned the wheel round and round and slowly, the bows turned into the wind. The sails flapped and flailed until the momentum turned the ship onto the other tack. As the sails captured the wind again, the crew hauled in the ropes tight while the mizzen yard slanted the opposite direction and soon caught the wind. The ship gathered pace and was heading straight for the enemy with all the confidence in the world. 

Closer and closer they advanced, certain of their purpose. A line of cannons was manned and run out by his trusty men who were trained to diamond-hard professionalism ready for his order. Out here, men were men, and squirrels well they just walked the plank.  
They were all set to unleash a storm of red hot metal on the enemy but Captain Drake waited just till the right time. His upstretched arm finally swept down to give the signal to fire. A solid barrage of shot rang out and blue powder smoke puffed back. Immediately the gunners sponged the hot guns and rammed in powder, shot and wadding into the grim barrels ready for the next barrage. In the meantime, shots rang out from the other ship and splinters of wood flew and tatters of split canvas appeared in the main sail but this was nothing. His men scorned such a puny counterattack. The guns were run out again ready to fire and another broadside smashed out.

The battle raged on until to Captain Drake's joy, the other ship's main and fore topmasts suddenly leaned, tottered and fell over the side, trailing wrecked canvas and smashed spars. Their gunfire had knocked half the fight out of the ship as only a few guns were firing back ineffectively. Squirrels ain't got no staying power, he snorted.

"Lay her alongside. Prepare to board." He yelled, his voice hoarse and cracked. The "Golden Hind" closed in and the men threw grappling irons to hook into the splintered sides of the other ship. With an exultant leap, Captain Drake landed on the deck. He pulled out its sword and brandished it menacingly just as he wanted to do. His crew swept in after him and they became an unstoppable force. In no time at all, they seized control of the ship and the remaining crew surrendered as they knew what was good for them. The heist had gone off without a hitch and both ship and cargo became theirs, well the property of the English Crown. He climbed down into the hold with his men there they were, what looked like treasure chests, fresh from the Spanish Americas. One of his accomplices broke open the nearest chest and the gold glittered fiercely at them. This was a real haul.

The "Golden Hind" finally sailed up the River Thames, past the formidable fortifications of the Tower of London that he knew so well. Just short of London Bridge, the ship was laid smoothly along the dockland and waiting for him, was Queen Elizabeth, resplendent in the richest of flowing gowns and frizzed red hair. One of those pretty boy courtiers helped her climb onto his deck. Bursting with pride, he showed the queen the treasure chest stuffed with doubloons and rare jewels, looted from the American continent until diverted to a better use, what with a little bit of discreet piracy. The Queen's eyes shone with gratitude and a gracious smile spread across her face. For a second, her speaking voice and grand manner reminded him of George but he must have been dreaming. She'd been in the last movie he's seen.

While she was going to scoop the majority of the prize money to feed the British Exchequer, his cut of the booty would handsomely support him. Those were rough and ready times and he needed no crooked lawyer to tell him what was his and what wasn't. The seamen's eyes glittered with pride and anticipation of pleasures to come. Their share of the prize money would be spent on the wine and the women of London town. Are not conquering sailors devilishly attractive to the womankind of the bustling capital city?

Curling his lip like Elvis, Captain Marino stood triumphantly on the quarterdeck of the "Golden Hind", cheered by all his trusty seamen, glad to be back home with overflowing treasure chests. He sneered as much as he grinned at the grand finale scene.

"Errol Flynn, eat your heart out."

Kay was much puzzled by this mumbled remark of Marino's while his eyes were tightly closed. Just at this time, the air flight stewardess came by to serve meals in the usual plastic covering. She was there to dispense drinks as well, which, to her surprise, he disregarded. "Hey, doc, bet you didn't know I played bass for Elvis Presley and saved England from the Spaniards?" Kay looked totally perplexed at him for the first time in her life. Then he shook her head at what she took to be was one of Marino's endless fantasies.  
"In your dreams, Marino"  
Marino was silent for a moment. It felt so goddamn real and the inside of this aircraft looked kind of pale and washed out in comparison.  
"Say doc, have you ever had a dream come true?" he said at last "Sorry but no"  
"You ain't no fun, doc," Marino replied disparagingly, lingering over the words. A man can dream, can't he? 


	23. Chapter 23

Part Twenty Three

As Michael Beauchamp drew up in the visitors' car park of HMP Larkhall, he frantically looked around to see that there weren't any libellous hacks from the press looming on the horizon. The last thing he needed was to be seen in such a decrepit hole such as this one. What would his colleagues in the Department of Health think of him if he were to be captured on TV or in the paper, entering a custodial waste bin for the criminally insane. Well, near as damn it, he thought as he crossed the tarmac to the visitors' centre. But was Connie, his Connie, the Connie he had been married to for some considerable time, insane? Surely she must be if she had really killed one of her patients. If this assertion were actually to be believed, he didn't know his wife anywhere near as much as he thought he had. 

"Arms up," Gina Rossi said to Michael as the line of people moved forward and he came face to face with her. "Why, precisely?" Michael just had to ask, knowing that to have the last word was to have the upper hand of power. "Because I said so," Gina replied, having absolutely no time for this individual who appeared to think that he was above everyone else there. She had observed him as he had all but cringed away from those around him, as though he could be contaminated by the very air he breathed. "It's just one of the rules in here, as you might have noticed," She added sarcastically. "So, why not do as you're told and lift your arms up so as I can search you. Now do it." "And do you have your superior's permission to speak to members of the government in such a fashion?" Michael asked in his most supercilious tone. "While you're in here, Mister," Gina told him, lowering her voice to its often sinister level. "I can tell you to do whatever I like. You got that?" "It's a shame that all you custodians of the mentally backward only ever read The Sun. Perhaps if you read The Mail or The Telegraph more often, you might learn the correct way in which to address paying members of the public." "I might have known that Connie would have a husband with more gob than real clout. Now, take the rod out your arse and get in there. She's all ready and waiting for you." Nearly spitting feathers, Michael followed the line of other visitors into the room full of tables and prisoners, finding his wife in seconds. No one else in this place looked quite as handsome or well-groomed as she did, despite her having been inside for nearly a week. 

"You look more than a little flustered," Connie told him as he sat down opposite her. "What do you expect, with me coming to this hell hole, and being searched like a common criminal?" "It's just procedure, Michael," Connie said, sounding thoroughly bored. "Get over it." After a few moments' silence, Connie asked, "Well, aren't you going to ask me how I am? As my husband, I assume that you've come here to check on my welfare, though the fact that you haven't contacted me once since I was incarcerated here would lead me to believe otherwise." "I've been very busy," Michael replied petulantly. "Trying to avoid both my boss and the press." "Oh, my heart bleeds," Connie said sarcastically. "And what's your boss got to do with anything? He didn't make your marriage vows, promising to assist me in times of need." "Do you have any idea what this fiasco could do to my promotion prospects?" Michael hissed at her through gritted teeth. "Personally," Connie said in total disgust. "I couldn't give a flying fuck about your promotion prospects. You never have about mine, except when it's suited you to do so." "You've only been here a week and already you're starting to talk like one of the gutter tarts that no doubt inhabit the majority of this place." "You'd know all about tarts from the so-called gutter, wouldn't you." "Don't be infantile," Michael responded curtly. "Besides, I'm not the one who used to be a tart. Remember just how desperate you were for money when I came upon you in that bar?" There was utter silence between them as the lowest of all insults took its time to thoroughly sink in, even though the room around them was filled with the noise of numerous inmates chatting with their families. 

As soon as #Connie felt that she could speak without blowing off the roof with the force of her fury, she said, "You didn't come here to throw very long ago and ancient insults at me." "No," Michael conceded quietly, knowing that he really had gone too far with that particular reminder. "So, what did you come here for?" Connie asked, wanting the visit to be over as soon as possible. "Was it to say that I have your full support? Because I've seen little sign of it until now." "Connie," Michael wheedled. "You can see how it is." "Oh, can I," Connie demanded caustically, seeing just where this was going. "If I want to keep my job," Michael floundered. "And not be demoted to the rank of cleaning officer for the GMC, I can't be seen to support you. The press surrounding your remand has already been bad enough, and your forthcoming trial will only increase that a thousand fold. Let's face it, it isn't every day that a leading cardiothoracic consultant is accused of murdering her patient, is it." "I didn't do it, you stupid fool!" Connie hissed, attempting to keep her voice within normal limits. "Connie, it matters little whether you did or didn't do it," Michael continued, his argument seeming more pathetic by the minute. "Any major publicity surrounding this case could destroy me faster than the atom bomb." "So what you're saying," Connie responded, her anger steadily rising. "Is that you want nothing more to do with me, nothing whatsoever to do with someone who is supposed to be your wife, and who hasn't exactly failed to aid your up and coming status in the Department of Health?" "As I have previously said, you can see how I'm fixed." 

Rising swiftly to her feet, Connie leaned over the table and slapped his face with a resounding crack. "You bastard!" She all but shouted at him. "Is it really too much to ask for one little crumb of support from you? But oh no, I forgot, Michael Beauchamp's career and lifestyle mean more to him than anything else, just like they always have done." Standing up to try and retreat from her blistering diatribe, Michael tried to calm her down, instantly wary of the gazes directed towards him from every other person in the room. "Cut that out!" Gina demanded crossly, pinning Connie's arms to her sides. Virtually ignoring Gina's presence, Connie continued her verbal attack on Michael. "Do you know who has been there for me every step of the way so far?" Connie demanded, no longer expecting an answer. "Do you know who came to see me at the police station, who found me my lawyer on the very day I arrived here, and who brought me the things I needed from the house? It was Ric. He did everything I asked of him, everything that my ever loving husband ought to have done." "I might have known Griffin would have had a hand in it somewhere. God knows what you see in that pathetic individual." Michael was shouting just as loud as Connie by this time, and everyone in the room was staring at them. "I think you'd better leave," Dominic said, coming up to Michael and making to take hold of his arm. "I couldn't leave this place quick enough," Michael replied angrily, shoving Dominic aside and making for the door. As he passed Sylvia, he turned to her and said, "I hope you put her in solitary for assaulting a visitor." "Nothing would give me more pleasure," Sylvia told him gloomily. "But unfortunately, I don't make the rules around here." She said this as she spied Karen standing in the doorway of the visitors' room, looking on with mild curiosity. 

Karen had appeared in the visits' room just before Connie had slapped her husband, and had heard every word of their argument. Walking calmly up to where Gina still held Connie in a vice-like grip, she took the situation in hand. "Let her go," Karen said quietly but firmly. "I'll take her back to her cell, let her calm down a bit." "What she needs is a punch bag," Gina said ruefully, immediately letting go of Connie. "Not a bad idea," Karen concurred, tucking one of Connie's arms through hers and leading her towards the door that led back to the main part of the prison. 

They were silent as they walked, but Karen could feel Connie's body tremble as she fought to keep her sudden rush of tears under control. Letting them through several sets of gates, Karen led the way to the gym. Connie made no comment as they crossed the wooden floor to stand directly in front of a gently swinging punch bag. "Think of that as Michael," Karen told her, moving away to stand a safe distance from #Connie's flying arms. Taking her at her word, Connie let loose all her anger and bitterness, laying into the punch bag with all the strength she could muster. She hated him for doing this to her, for leaving her high and dry just because of how it might affect his career. She would have supported him every step of the way had he been in her position, she really would. But oh no, she couldn't possibly ask for anything from him, because it might get in the way of any possible promotion. 

When her battering finally wore her down, she left the punch bag violently swinging, and crossed to stand in front of one of the tall barred windows, the tears now coursing down her cheeks in a torrent. Walking slowly over to her, Karen stood beside her, putting an arm around her to offer what little comfort she could. "I assume that he said he couldn't possibly have anything to do with you over the coming months," Karen said into the silence. "You've got it," Connie replied dismally. "The stupid thing is," She continued. "That I shouldn't be at all surprised. Michael has always looked after number one, it must have something to do with being an only child." "I'll try not to take that as an insult," Karen said with a rye smile. "Ric's been so good to me," Connie told her. "I couldn't have got through the last week without him, and he's only really supposed to be a friend." "With a little bit of casual on the side," Karen filled in knowingly. "You too?" Connie asked, feeling a sense of companionship with this woman, all through their knowledge of a tall, dark and handsome man who would always be there for his favourites of the women in his life. "Ric will help you through this," Karen tried to reassure Connie. "Even if he has to have the occasional gamble on the side to do it." 


	24. Chapter 24

Part Twenty Four 

At two o clock in the morning, his overactive mind was feverishly working away so that he sat up with a start, wide-awake. Sighing to himself, he knew that it was useless to switch his mind off and settle back to sleep and he gave way to the demands that he had placed on himself. The still blackness of the night when sensible people were sound asleep prompted him to consider that he had acted precipitately. He also knew that the worst way of getting John to change his mind on a topic was to directly pressurize him in the way that he had done so. It was an easy step to conclude that he would similarly dig in his heels if someone tried to do the same to him. Though he found John perverse and infuriating on occasion, he knew him too well by now to lightly dismiss his ideas. He could not deny in himself the definite feelings of self-doubt taking shape, the emotions that he had spent his professional life keeping at bay. It didn't take him long to concede that his tactics were mistaken but he was damned if he would beat himself up into conceding that his thinking was also misjudged.

As he twisted and turned in his bed, he had to admit that there was an emotional element in the way he had behaved. He was simply afraid that one of these days, John would push the boundaries just that little bit too far and that he might end up being removed from his position. Monty was confident enough of his abilities to back up John in their periodic brushes with the executive but doubted his own strength to be the leader of the opposition. At heart, he came to realize that he had got angry with John because he had been driven by fear, both for himself and for John.

That left him with a real conundrum of what to do for the best. He understood John's claim for a stake in the trial yet he knew that John would not have that emotional detachment to see the trial through impartially, or be seen to do so. Appearances shouldn't matter but in practice they did. He had known Sir Ian Rochester for many years and they had both been part of the same circle until circumstances pushed them into opposition. At least they had a shared background. The malignant presence of Neil Haughton with his dangerously glittering eyes showed him to be an uncouth political fixer, a dangerous megalomaniac who was a threat to all of them. 

Particular snatches of John's words came to mind and they rang warning bells….."I cannot believe that she would have deliberately taken the life of her own patient….." That was not the basic perspective for a judge to start to oversee a trial. "….through talking to her, I've come to understand the driving spirit amongst the medical profession and I know how grossly improbable the charge is against Connie…..." Well, someone murdered Mrs. Masters, Monty counter reasoned to himself. In all probability, it was a member of the medical profession so that argument didn't stand up. Words framed themselves to say that John's sentiment was noble but misguided. For the first time for hours, a smile spread across Monty's face. He had hit upon the perfect formulation and clinched his determination that John should not be in the driving seat.

He recalled John's undoubted investigative qualities that he had seen in the Barbara Mills trial. Now that he had driven his anger out of his system, he generously conceded that John had a just claim to be able to get to the bottom of the matter. He couldn't run the trial by himself but he had a good case to be involved. Finally, the answer came to him in a flash of inspiration. John should be a winger. That was the answer and all Monty's mixed emotions floated away so that he became at peace with himself, or as much as he could be at three in the morning. With a smile of satisfaction on his face, he helped himself to a nightcap and promptly slid off into a peaceful sleep.

When Monty finally opened a bleary eye to the strong morning sunshine, he felt less than eager to greet a brand new day. Turning over and over in his mind that blazing row with John in the early hours of the morning hadn't helped him physically but it did make him quietly certain of what he must do.

"Ah, John, I wanted a word with you about the Connie Beauchamp trial. I have a possible compromise that will enable you to have some involvement and keep you out of trouble with the LCD"  
John raised his eyebrows in a meaningful fashion. The word 'compromise' had an ugly ring to it and 'keeping out of trouble' was hardly more encouraging. However, Monty was transparently trying to be helpful. "You want to be involved, John and I understand why you do and my respect for you has increased considerably after sitting in with you as a winger in the Barbara Mills trial. It's just that you are too closely connected for your own good because of your own sympathies and also that the LCD are bound to be breathing down your neck"  
"That has often been an incentive rather than a deterrent, Monty," John observed dryly.  
"All right, forget the LCD"  
"As if we could," observed John dryly.  
"The main point is that you simply have to be impartial in matters like this. I'm not telling you anything new. It's in the way of our calling. We simply have to be open to all possibilities. You know that at least as well as anyone"  
"This is a different tack from the one you tried yesterday. Where is this all leading to"  
"John, I want to clear up something for a start. My manner yesterday was unforgivably aggressive and intolerant. I went far beyond what is acceptable behaviour and I want to make a full apology." "Well, that's very generous of you," John replied slowly, impressed by this proud man's frankness. He couldn't help but wonder what was to come."……but you spoke of a compromise. Just what have you in mind"  
"The best solution for all concerned is that another judge try the case but you sit in as a winger. That way, you'll give your input of your very real qualities, which I've observed close at hand but avoid betting too emotionally involved. I know that you think that you will be impartial," Monty added hastily, seeing John's mouth open to protest, "but just how far will you be able to keep that up, one day after the next"  
John fell silent. Monty definitely had something in his reasoning. It brought to the surface, secret reservations about the wisdom of his actions, which had been lurking at the back of his mind all last evening.  
"So what are the positive advantages, Monty"  
"For a start, formally, you won't have the final say on the trial. You'll be hearing the trial at one remove and you will have someone else to confer with. You know as well as I do that the price we have to pay in our profession is in working alone. It brings both freedom and uncertainty and is something of a poisoned chalice, don't you think." John put his hands in his trouser pockets and started to walk round the room, deep in thought. The more he considered the matter, the more it came to make sense.  
"And you worked this out last night, Monty"  
"It is all my handiwork with no input, need I say from Sir Ian and any of the government cronies"  
"I believe you Monty……..I think you have the answer." John smiled and shook Monty by the hand. In turn, the other man drew a breath of relief. "I do understand how you feel, John. From what I've heard, Mrs. Beauchamp is a brilliantly talented surgeon and it seems totally bizarre for someone who has risen to the top of her profession at a relatively young age to be so reckless as well as criminal. This trial promises to be a knotty problem and I dare say that two minds focussed on the trial have a better prospect in reaching the right verdict. The last time that I have heard of a doctor becoming a poisoner was Dr. Crippen"  
"And I suppose that you want to be the trial judge," John suggested with a half smile.  
"I'd like to be, John but my lists are way too full. You know very well what our caseloads are like right now. I have an alternative suggestion. What about Jo Mills"  
John's eyebrows were raised in surprise. He hadn't expected that one. Monty was showing definite and interesting signs in being adventurous in his thinking. "Will that really square the circle politically after what you've said before? "I don't see why not. She's able enough and she's done it before. Besides, the finger of suspicion, which has been pointed at the pair of you has recently become confused as to which way to aim. Between you and me, they have given up trying to keep up with your private life"  
John laughed heartily. Certainly, both the cloistered corridors of Old England and the rampantly aggressive go getting New Labour men and women would have extreme difficulty in getting their heads round his lifestyle. "Very well then, Monty, if Jo is willing, I'll sit in as winger as you suggest. I have no idea as to what Jo and I are letting ourselves in for"  
"You'll find out," grinned Monty as he touched John on the shoulder and moved on with a feeling of huge relief. He really didn't like arguments with John. 


	25. Chapter 25

Part One Hundred And Twenty Five

Part Twenty Five

On the Thursday morning, George was sitting drinking Tea at the kitchen table, mentally preparing for her visit to Connie later that day. She didn't have an awful lot of news for her, but she thought that a visit from just about anyone might raise Connie's spirits a little. She didn't really know how to help Connie through this long and drawn-out turmoil, because criminal work hadn't usually been her forte. She had defended and prosecuted civil clients, those who had money and weren't afraid to pay for her services. She was no different from a prostitute in some ways, she reflected to herself as she nibbled on some toast, selling to the highest bidder, though Connie's case could be said to be her one exception. It went without saying that she would obviously charge Connie, who was certainly in a position to pay for a good defence barrister, but she was also working Connie's case because Connie was becoming a friend. This had initially come as something of a surprise to George, because her dealings with Connie hadn't begun under the most auspicious of circumstances. But now here she was, trying to defend and support Connie to the utmost of her ability.

But as she sat there, reflecting on the working day to come, the phone rang. It was John.

"This is a nice surprise, darling," She said on hearing his voice. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"You're going to see Connie today, aren't you?"

"Yes, this afternoon. Why?"

"I want to come with you," He said, not banking on the argument he was about to receive.

"John, you are going to be one of the judges overseeing Connie's eventual trial, which you very well know means that you can't go anywhere near her. What possessed you to suggest such a thing?"

"Because I want to see her," He protested. "I want to see how she's doing, and to offer what little support I can."

"You will be supporting her by sitting as a winger in her trial, and I can tell you how she is. Connie is bored, tired, frustrated and angry. It doesn't take a genius to work it out. You really ought to know better than to attempt to have contact with a defendant prior to her day in court."

"Nobody needs to know that I've seen her," He continued, determined on this occasion to have his way.

"I would know, and I'm not willing to jeopardise my professional integrity, by allowing you to do this."

"I'll see you at the prison," He startled her by saying. "That way you can act as though you didn't know I was coming." When he put the phone down on her, George slammed the receiver back into its cradle with exasperation. He would have to do this to her, wouldn't he, take the rules of the brethren into his own hands, just to satisfy his own curiosity.

When George arrived at the prison, she wasn't at all surprised to see John's car there waiting for her. She prayed that nobody who knew either of them would see them together here, as she really could end up in an awful lot of trouble for being seen to allow the judge access to her client. When Karen came down to the gate lodge to let them in, she was also surprised to see John.

"Aren't you breaking every rule in the book by insisting on seeing Connie Beauchamp like this?"

"Yes, yes, I know," He responded tartly. "But unless one of your staff turns grass for the LCD, I'll be quite safe. I want to see Connie, just to see how she's doing, that's all."

"And unfortunately, I never seem to be able to deny you anything," Karen replied, wholly disappointed with herself for giving in like this. "You can both come to my office and I'll send down to G wing for someone to bring her up. It'll be a lot more discrete than seeing her in one of the legal visits rooms." As they followed Karen through the corridors and locked gates, neither John nor George said a word to each other. They were in resolute disagreement over this, and neither was about to budge.

Whilst they were waiting for Connie to be brought up from the wing, Karen made to arrange for some coffee to be brought in. Remembering what had happened last time Connie was in contact with coffee, George said,

"I think it had better be tea rather than coffee. The smell of it made her throw up when I last had some here."

"Oh yes, of course," Karen replied, obviously knowing by now that Connie was pregnant.

"Am I missing something here?" John asked, getting a distinct feeling that he had been left out of the loop somewhere.

"Connie is currently a few weeks pregnant," George told him regretfully, not really having wanted to reveal this without Connie's consent.

"When on earth did that happen?" John demanded incredulously.

"Not inside my prison, I can assure you," Karen said a little defensively.

"Did she know, when she first arrived, I mean?" John asked, trying to put this latest revelation with the Connie he thought he knew.

"She does now," George replied dryly. "And don't you dare bring it up when we see her. She's still very sensitive about it and I don't want her upset more than is absolutely necessary." John smiled inwardly at her ferocious protectiveness over her client, not something he was used to seeing in her.

"There's something else you both might as well know before you see her," Karen said, thinking of Connie's performance in the visits' room. "Michael came to see her a couple of days ago."

"Michael is Connie's less than useless husband," George filled in for John's benefit.

"They got into a fairly hefty row," Karen continued. "Which isn't all that surprising, since that was the first time he'd made contact with her. She ended up slapping him, a real back-hander right across the face, and I had to remove her immediately."

"You didn't put her down the block, did you?" Asked George in concern.

"No, because I totally agreed with her," Karen replied with a slightly rye smile. "I took her to the gym where she took it out on a punch bag. It seemed to do her some good."

Just then, there was a knock on Karen's door and Dominic showed Connie in. Connie had been a little surprised to be shown up to the Governor's office rather than one of the legal visits rooms, but she had learned quickly that to ask a question in this place was pointless. If she needed to know anything, she would find out soon enough.

"Mr. Justice Deed," She said on seeing him, not having expected this at all.

"Mrs. Beauchamp," He replied just as formally, seeing this as Connie's way of keeping some of her dignity intact.

"I'll leave you to it," Karen said, getting up from her desk and making for the door. "You've got an hour."

When the door had closed, George told Connie to sit down.

"Should you really be here?" Connie asked John as she took a chair between them, and George poured her a cup of tea from the pot on the table.

"Not strictly, no," John admitted without a flicker of conscience. "But I wanted to see you, to make sure you're all right."

"All right," Connie responded caustically. "In this place? That's a laugh if ever I heard one. I'm bitterly angry at the injustice that's being done to me, I'm frustrated with the lack of urgency that takes place around here, and I just want to get back to my ward and to my theatre, where I might actually be able to do something useful."

"Connie," John tried to assure her gently. "Everything that can be done is being done, I promise you."

"Yes, so George keeps telling me, but I'm not seeing much sign of it.. I'm sorry," She said to George. "I know that you're doing everything in your power to help me, plus an awful lot that definitely exceeds what should be expected of a top barrister, and I'm incredibly appreciative of everything you are doing. It's just so easy to get wound up in this place. It's so frustrating not being able to move things forward. I nearly got into a fight yesterday just because I couldn't prevent myself from verbally soaring over a particularly irritating inmate."

"Connie," George said in concern. "I don't think you need me to tell you that a fight in your condition wouldn't exactly help the situation."

"And I thought we'd agreed not to talk about that for the time being," Connie said, glancing at John to see only concern in his eyes.

"I know,#" George agreed. "And I'm sorry. I just want you to be careful, that's all."

"So," Connie said, trying to alter the direction of the conversation and looking straight at John. "Am I right in assuming that you will be sitting up on your throne on high for my trial?"

"Partly," John told her. "Jo Mills will hopefully be sitting as trial judge, and I will be sitting as a winger."

"That sounds like a novel approach," Connie said distrustingly. "Why can't you sit in your usual seat?"

"This arrangement is as a result of our previous…" He stopped, trying to think of the right way to describe the hour he'd spent with Connie, unclothed on his sofa.

"…Session in chambers?" Connie supplied bluntly.

"That's one way of putting it," George said dryly.

"It means that I would be far too involved with the defendant," John explained. "I doubt that even I would be able to remain entirely impartial."

"As long as Mrs. Mills can maintain the correct level of impartiality whilst being aware that I have slept with her lover," Connie replied thoughtfully. John and George glanced at each other, knowing that this was yet another bridge they would have to cross some time in the next few months.

"Something else that we need to discuss," George put in, wanting to get Connie off this possible difficulty. "Is what Karen told us just before you arrived. She said that you had a particularly difficult visit from your husband."

"Difficult is one word for it," Connie said with a dark look in her eyes. "The little weasel is being leaned on by your ex of all people, to have no contact with me either before or during the trial. Neil Haughton seems to think that it wouldn't do the government any favours if it were known that one of its up and coming ministers was entangled with someone who may have murdered her patient."

"Neil?" George said in shock. "He hasn't got anything to do with the Department of Health."

"But the powers that be are obviously aware that Michael is a friend of his."

"Miserable cretin," John muttered darkly. "The current Home Secretary," He qualified hurriedly. "Not your husband."

"I've been known to think the same of Michael many a time," Connie replied with a dismissive shrug to her shoulders.

"I think this calls for some evasive action," George put in determinedly. "It might not be a bad idea for someone to make sure he keeps his hands off this case."

"And just how do you plan to achieve that?" John asked her, knowing that only a selected few might be able to force Neil Haughton's hand on anything.

"A visit from me might not go amiss," George dropped into the conversation without any prior warning.

"Absolutely not!" John told her firmly. "You aren't going anywhere near that man, whatever the reason."

"I think I'll decide that, thank you," George responded tartly. "It might just do the trick, you never know."


	26. Chapter 26

14 Stevenson Place

Part Twenty-Six

The next day, as Monty ate his breakfast in solitary splendour, feelings of anxiety started to dampen his confidence as he started to confront the reality of convincing Jo Mills to try the Connie Beauchamp case with John as winger. His plans had conveniently and dangerously assumed that Jo would slot neatly into the space that was open for her. It now crossed his mind that she might regard the reward of being judge as a poisoned chalice. Because he had come to an amicable working relationship with John over the Barbara Mills trial, it needn't necessarily be the same for John and Jo. His sole consolation was that John would honour their agreement. This was ironic consolation, given John's extreme obstinacy when his mind was set against an idea. It was just that he had never known John to backtrack on a promise

When he considered Jo's personality, it was all too horribly clear that she had a mind and a will of her own. Somehow a battle of wits in a man-to-man confrontation had a curiously reassuring quality. The same battle of wits with a strong-minded woman made him feel uncomfortable, especially with a barrister whose professional calling card was a facility with words and logic. Resisting the temptation to resort to Dutch Courage, he set off with as much enthusiasm as he could summon up but when it came to passing on the message to his personal assistant, he acted more out of a spirit of fatalism than anything else.

"I've a proposition to put to you, Jo. You have been making your mark as an advocate in some pretty tricky and sensitive cases and you have come out trumps."

"I don't know about that, Monty. In the last major case I did, George Channing did a fine job in working with me in the Barbara Mills case."

"George has a fine reputation but her specialty is more in civil than criminal cases."

Jo paused for reflection at the curiosity of Monty summoning her for a private chat and being so effusively complimentary. She sensed that there was something up and she fixed the man with her penetrating gaze and most pointed questioning.

"Just what are you getting at, Monty?"

Monty was visibly discomforted, prayed mentally to himself and dived straight in.

"I won't beat about the bush, Jo. The Connie Beauchamp case is coming up for trial. It is a tricky case and it needs a combination of delicate handling and a cool detached perspective."

"So I assume that it is coming John's way."

"If it were left to John, it would." Monty said, coughing in embarrassment at receiving precisely the wrong answer. "I have had a devil of an argument with him about it and this is precisely the sort of case that he shouldn't handle. You know that he has a crusading streak in him….."

"……..and how," smiled Jo.

"…..but this is a case where I felt that he would get too emotionally involved for his own good. In the end, we came up with a compromise where, if it is all right with you, you would be the judge and John would act as winger……."

"So John would get what he would want without appearing to do so," snapped Jo. She was starting to work herself up to a full-scale diatribe when Monty cut her short. All his rehearsed reasonings flew out of the window as Monty spoke straight from the heart with considerable forcefulness.

"No more and no less would he get his way than when he conducted the Barbara Mills case and I acted as winger. You know very well that John and I haven't always seen eye to eye and the situation we faced couldn't have been better designed to bring conflicts to the surface yet when it came down to it, we had a surprisingly amicable working relationship right throughout the trial. I would not dream of creating a situation where you would act as cipher and John would be the power behind the throne or that would work against the very reservations I had of John taking the case in the first place. It would also be demeaning to you and that isn't right."

"Why didn't you say this in the first place, Monty?" Jo asked in softer tones, struck by the solid conviction in his tones.

Monty briefly cast his eyes heavenwards. There were a million things he could have said but he was trying to be diplomatic. Much good had it done him.

"So I take it that you'll consider the idea?"

Jo paused for thought as the implications started to sink home. She felt as if she was an understudy suddenly being asked to get out on stage and it made her feel excited and nervous all at the same time.

"It sounds possible, Monty," Jo said slowly and thoughtfully. "I could do with a little time to think over the idea. I think it would help if I talked over the idea with John. Besides anything else, I've been so used to me being the barrister and John being the judge. I need to talk it over with him so that we both know what we're letting ourselves in for."

"By all means," Monty said quickly and effusively. He knew better than to force the issue there and then.

" I take your point about your own experience of working with John but that's not the same for John and I. All you'd had to deal with was a history when both of you were on opposite sides of the fence, politically speaking. As soon as I talk to John and hopefully establish our boundaries, I'll give you a definite answer."

Monty let Jo make her quiet exit and promptly decided to opt for patience. He had to pin his faith in John's powers of persuasion and fight down his fear that John might cause Jo to veer off in the opposite direction. You never know with women, he muttered under his breath as he reached for the bottle of whisky and poured himself a stiff measure. While it was earlier in the morning than he was used to, he reasoned to himself that, after all, he deserved it.

When John heard the unexpected knock at his door, it immediately grabbed his attention. They came in all shapes and sizes, from the timid hesitant respectful tap to the heavy panel beating that George's fury had once wreaked on the door to his chambers. This knock was about mid to low volume and John was not greatly surprised to see Jo. One quick glance at her showed that Jo was in a thoughtful mood and she wasted no time in unburdening her mind. John poured her a glass of orange and joined her with a glass of mineral water.

"I've come to talk to you about the Connie Beauchamp trial. Monty Everard has come up with the unexpected proposition that I be the trial judge with you as the winger."

"It's no more than you deserve, Jo," John said quickly.

"That's not the point, John. I left it with Monty that before I come to any decision that I talk it over with you first. If I agreed to this proposal, I can see that this could test all the relationships between us seeing that George is appearing for the defence and Brian Cantwell for the prosecution."

"You make a fair point," John observed in judicious tones. His mask like features covered his discomfiture at Jo's sharp observation that they might end up getting more than he bargained for. He hadn't thought of this when he had battled with Monty to get some kind of access to the case that he prized so dearly. He had been so single-minded to ensure that Connie got the justice that she deserved.

"So you tell me your side of the story of how this proposal has come about?" Jo pursued.

" There was some controversy as to who should take the trial. I immediately expressed a strong interest in overseeing the trial and Monty vehemently opposed me, saying that I would get too emotionally involved in the trial. After we talked at some length, I agreed with him. I dare say he was right."

"Go on."

"Monty came up with this fair compromise which seems to be the best of both worlds."

"Is that because that's the best of what you could get or are you are positively convinced of the rightness of the compromise?"

"Originally, I settled for this as a compromise for what I really wanted but I am seeing the possible advantages of you being in the picture. I respect both you and George for the qualities and you have the advantage over George in having a greater experience in criminal law."

"So, if it hadn't been for that, you might equally have wanted George as a winger as well as me?"

"Perhaps," John admitted after a pause. That pause gave John just enough time to realize how time had so changed his relationship over the years with George from one time young lovers, proud parents and fellow professionals, the bitterest of enemies, ideologically at daggers drawn. In some circuitous fashion that John found difficult to describe, they found that they had made a tentative accommodation before their friendship blossomed and finally their love in their unconventional way along with Jo.

"…yes, come to think of it, that might otherwise have been possible."

Jo looked sharply at John. He was telling her the plain and simple truth and she found it reassuring. John was not to know this.

"Anyway, it would put me at arms length away from the case so that I could advise where needed and achieve that detachment which is essential for the case. I have had experience of Monty acting as a winger in the Barbara Mills case and I intend to follow his very sound example, to know when to gently intervene and when to leave well enough alone."

"Do you think that you can live up to such a promise? You are asking a lot of yourself, to exercise that self restraint which isn't perhaps your strongest virtue."

"I'm not certain," admitted John with a slight tremor in his voice, making himself feel very uncomfortable "but I can try. That's all that I can say."

As he was looking at his feet, he was not to see the wide smile spread across Jo's face. This was as much right as she had to expect of him. Only a few years ago, John could have come out with smooth and confident reassurances. This was far more convincing. Much to John's surprise, Jo slipped her arms round his shoulders and kissed him. He gave way to her embrace and, despite his sense of confusion, he knew that somehow, he had persuaded her without intending to do so.

You know that if I'm the judge, I am in danger of being very domineering to all and sundry. Power may go to my head."

"It seems that I have no choice but to be careful. Responsibility goes hand and hand with power."

Jo had to work very hard to suppress a grin. Just out of mischief, she was exaggerating and she had to hand it to him that he rose gracefully and maturely to the challenge.


	27. Chapter 27

14 Stevenson Place

Part Twenty Seven

George sighed with exasperation at the way that John was, well, being John. It was typical of the man to determinedly come along to Larkhall Prison when he knew very well that he should keep a discreet distance from Connie Beauchamp, seeing that he was due to sit in as a winger at her forthcoming trial. She couldn't help being amused at the way he was supposed to be offering wise words of legal finesse to Jo yet he blatantly broke all the rules in this area of his life. There was a strange split in the man's personality in knowing what he should and shouldn't do, offering words of advice from his throne and acting like a naughty schoolboy the moment he stepped off his throne. She had long since given up working out just why he behaved in this fashion. To be fair, she realized that the man's rakish personality was very attractive to her when she had first met him. She finally shrugged her shoulders and concluded that she ought not have been really surprised. It was an unalterable fact of life and she drew some malicious amusement and satisfaction that, however much he tried her patience, Sir Ian Rochester and Lawrence James suffered much worse than she did. It served them right, she decided, it stopped them being smug and complacent and kept them on their toes.

What was a far worse problem to her was just how she was going to persuade that fearful ex of hers to lay off the Connie Beauchamp case, to call it by its rightful description. This was another problem altogether. The man was stiff necked and mistook childish petulance for purpose. Once for whatever reason he had made a decision, whatever it was, he had this ridiculously absurd idea that he had to stick to it, come what may. She sneakingly thought that Margaret Thatcher had a lot to answer for. Of course, this was a subject on which she and John clashed swords years ago. John in his priggish, self-righteous way used to drone on in his utterly tiresome, repetitive way about the way she was attacking traditional freedoms. She remembered maliciously winding John up in adopting a totally contrary position partly in support of a strong powerful woman and partly, well she just felt like it. She could now see that Neil Haughton and his cronies had stolen some of her most obvious clichés and the best she could say about them was that they were boring. In reality, when she felt that she had to retreat from a position she had adopted, she did so with as much unobtrusive grace as possible. After that, she moved on. Thinking about this made George start to realize that her major problem for her was to avoid losing her temper and to refrain from making a biting, sarcastic remark at his expense. The trouble was that the temptation to provoke him was irresistible.

The smile on George's face widened as she started to perceive that deep down, there were more similarities between her and John than she had ever suspected. It was just that they were tempted by different things and meant that they had clashed like crazy in the past because of their willful personalities. At least her arguments with John has dwelt in the exalted realm of high drama and not the third rate bargain basement soap opera where that wretched man belonged? Why hadn't she ever seen that before, she wondered? A grin split her face as she considered that it would make a splendid put down until wiser counsels prevailed. She had to stick to business and be controlled and wise in what she said, she reflected with an attempt at pursed lips and a serious demeanour.

The thought did enable her to be in a positive mood about the world around her. She finally took the step to make the arrangements to meet that detestable man at the Home Office.

"George, it's been such a long time since we met," Neil Haughton said in his totally insincere fashion with outstretched arms. Graciously, George offered her cheek to be kissed and quickly pulled back, her best glacial smile on her face. In reality, she was worried in case he contaminated her.

"It's a long time since we met."

"Too long George. I don't know what set us on different courses in life. Still I do hope you are making a success out of your life."

You mean, you really don't remember three years ago, hitting me and cutting my cheek open, she inwardly thought with incredulity. Then again, she ought to realize that politician's memories were notoriously malleable. Now she came to recall past conversations, they were equally capable of thrusting a disagreeable event to the back of their minds only to recall it at once when the political context changed.

"Well, it's obvious that you and success are faithful companions in life."

"Isn't it just the case," Neil Haughton exclaimed with great satisfaction. "The PM thinks well of me and I am definitely a rising star in the government."

Isn't that just like the man, George grimaced inwardly with disgust. It brought home how far and how long she had been in a diverging course from him. Images of Jo, Karen, John, Nikki and Connie all came to a mind. They belonged to a constellation of related illuminations whereas this man was a black hole, which threatened to suck everything into its destiny.

"I'm sure you are doing well," George said non committally.

"Well, this is a pleasant social occasion, George," Neil Haughton pronounced for both of them with great satisfaction. "Was there any special reason you decided to look me up after all these years or did you want to have a nice intimate chat about old times?"

George nearly gagged at the man's choice of words. He was so far up his own backside that he was in severe danger of coming out of his own mouth. Her training in hiding her emotions was severely strained at this point as she felt that she was prostituting herself, mentally speaking. This was of course the crossroads of their conversation where she was obliged to start easing into the real reason for the meeting. There was something in his expression that told her that she had ingrained habits of honesty that couldn't put on appearances in the way that she used to be able to. While that was an indication of her own spiritual growth, it put her at a disadvantage at that moment. She licked her lips as she hesitated before finally finding the right words to say.

"I did have a matter of private business and I thought you would be the person to approach. I understand that you are friends with Michael Beauchamp."

"Go on," Neil Haughton said guardedly.

"You may know that his wife, Connie Beauchamp is one of our finest cardio thoracic surgeons at St Mary's hospital and has recently been arrested for the alleged murder of

one of her patients at the hospital."

"That's a real turn up for the book. Still, you never can tell these days."

"Are you telling me that you have become a subscriber to that brand of conspiracy politics that you used to be so contemptuous of? If I remember it right, you were dismissive of those who thought that under the camouflage of respectability, strange crimes and abuses took place. You used to describe them as cranks."

"Go on, George. Tell me what you're after," Neil Haughton asked her with a distinct edge to his voice and George regretted opening her mouth and being too honest. She had forgotten that he was incapable of dealing with honesty on any level.

"Word has it that you have been leaning on Michael Beauchamp to keep his distance from his wife, Connie."

"Aren't you assuming that I am particularly close to Michael in the first place?"

"No assumption, Neil. I know very well from years of being the glittering ornament at your social occasions knowing full well how far your circles of acquaintances extend. He's rich and powerful enough therefore you know him. QED," George pronounced firmly.

"He's in a difficult position. He has his professional reputation to maintain in the Department of Health," Neil Haughton replied with elaborate concern.

"So she's guilty until proved innocent. This is a strange position to adopt, as Home Office minister and towards a dedicated member of the medical profession."

"As they say, George, there's no smoke without fire. It was Michael's decision to maintain his distance. I can't tell him what to do in a delicate situation like this," Neil Haughton said, a cold smile on his face and outstretched arms.

A rush of thought ran through George's mind like lightning. Except for their final bust up, this was the first time she had directly confronted the man on a matter where the question of his trustworthiness was on the line. She found it easy to see the scene through John's eyes and cold contempt ran through her veins at the unashamed way he dropped one lie into the black hole of amnesia and promptly picked up another one. She was grateful that she reacted that way as a surge of hot anger, though righteous, wouldn't do her any good.

'………The difference between you and me, Jo, is that I don't get emotionally involved." she had once said to Jo what seemed a lifetime ago. She was so sure of herself then. Nowadays, she wasn't as certain ……….

"I wouldn't push that metaphor too far, Neil. Politically speaking, you have had some strange bedfellows in your time."

"So has John. Even a casual conversation with Ian told me that John has a spotted record and the only reason he is still around is because judges can't be sacked. I suppose he should count his blessings- for now."

"You should know very well that John has never transgressed for selfish material gain. In any case, this is getting away from the main point. I am simply asking you not to stand between husband and wife, at least to be neutral. Connie Beauchamp deserves better than to be deserted by him in her hour of need. Just think of it, a high performing surgeon with huge responsibility for life or death operations being suddenly torn away from that source of self-satisfaction and the company of her colleagues. She's now been dumped in some overcrowded Victorian jail with some of the detritus of society and facing the appalling prospect of a public trial."

"I do believe you're becoming sentimental after all these years. I would never have expected it of you," jeered Neil Haughton, in a heartless tone of voice, an unpleasant smile spreading across his face.

Very unusually for her, George couldn't prevent herself from blushing with embarrassment. It had happened very rarely in her life and she had always hated it more than she could express in words. Additional fuel to the fire was that she knew very well that her capacity to feel emotion made her a human being and how morally diseased his outlook was. Her intense anger wasn't directed inwardly as once it might have been but was reflected outwards.

"You want to make sure that Michael Beauchamp is everything he says he is. You have backed the wrong horse before. Remember Tim Listfield?" George warned him in an ominously low tone of voice. She had tried reason and sentiment and her last card to play was of his self interest. However, Neil Haughton was too blind with self-satisfaction not to see that this was the quiet before the storm.

"Sir Tim Listfield, George," corrected Neil Haughton, the eternal pedant.

"You mean he can't be stripped of his knighthood, Neil?" George cut back, raising an eyebrow.

"We look after our own. He cannot be touched, not even by that idealistic fool, John Deed. Never mind, we'll find some way of bringing down that baker's boy sooner or later. In the meantime, I am Home Secretary and I am resolute on the matter. I have a reputation and a natural inclination to not change my mind. I am definitely not for making a U turn on this subject so you can take your overdose of emotion somewhere else."

Looking back on the events afterwards when she had calmed down, George couldn't believe how that man had pressed all her buttons at once to make her blow her top and how utterly egocentric he was. At the time, her anger rose up inside her like molten lava and exploded with a great force of explosion. She couldn't help it as all as discretion was thrown to the winds. Right at the back of her mind, a tiny thought told her that reason was wasted on the man and she had nothing to lose.

"Oh God, you're Margaret Thatcher in drag," exploded George in utter contempt.

"And what's wrong with Margaret Thatcher? She put the Great back into Great Britain. She was the Iron Lady. I thought you once admired her."

"Yes, and look what happened to her. You should know that I can and will change my mind and be proud of it. That woman ended up as her own worst enemy and ended up as a rusting reject in the rain. You really are the most obnoxious fool I have ever known in my life. You know what really worries me," George continued, warming to her theme and waving a forefinger at the man. "It's not that I'm bothered on my own account. What worries me is that the fate of this country is in the hands of bloodless men like you. Without your shallow ambitions, you are a hollow man. The lunatics have taken over the asylum and the only sane people are those who you most hate and fear. You're a million miles away from me, always were, always will be. I can see that I'm completely wasting my valuable time so I'm going."

With that, she stormed out, grabbed the door handle and with surprising strength, pulled the door shut behind her. Unfortunately, the door was one of those weighty, portentous edifices but nevertheless, it slammed behind her with a reverberating crash that must have echoed round the entire department. She stood there with a feeling of satisfaction as the imposing Georgian corridor amplified the echo nicely. Finally the clicking of her high heels announced her rapid departure.


	28. Chapter 28

14 Stevenson Place Part Twenty Eight

Tina had felt self conscious about herself from a very early age, growing up in the shadow of her smarter, brighter more attractive sister Maxi. Growing up only confirmed the low opinion that she had always had of herself. She also knew from an early age, from the school playground that the world was divided into leaders and followers and she was most definitely a follower. Her life meant working out who or what to follow and for a long time, it had been Maxi and the Peckham Boot Gang and everything that it represented. At one time, she used to walk round Peckham, permanently stressed up, always edgy as her part in the gang's operations in handling stolen goods made her nervous about being caught out. When she first came here, life wasn't much better. It was only after Maxi died and along with it, the gang, that she realized that she wasn't cut out to act tough. It was all just an act that, even if she could fool others, she couldn't fool herself. In her own way, she got to realize that there was a tender hearted stranger whom she needed to meet and how much she looked so much like her. By a process of drift, she got to have mates who accepted her as she was.

She remembered the kind hearted beautiful women who took an interest in her. It took her time to realize that, if she couldn't look like them or talk like them, it didn't matter. Miss Betts had changed all that when a few years ago, she had persuaded her much against her will to take educational classes. It was all struggle to make her brain to work but she and Nikki were somehow always round the wing with that smile of encouragement so she kept going. She couldn't forget that dead glamorous barrister, George, who was so kind to her that night that Buki cut up. The best thing about her classes was that her teacher gave her the time of day and she had her mates around to stop her worrying. She felt that, even if the ship she was on sunk under her, she had not one lifebelt but three and they would be all mates together in the water. From the first night that Connie came to join the gang sharing the Costa Con's gin and tonic, Tina figured out that she would also be around to help her out. All in all, she had learnt over the last few years to know who her friends are, to accept herself and there's only the odd head case like Buxton to watch out for.

Now that she was safe, she watched some of the new girls who came to Larkhall and who better than her to spot that vulnerability behind a tough exterior? There was that new skinny girl, Viv with short blonde died cropped hair. She witnessed her frustration at receiving a letter that her clever sister had written to her and Viv had been reduced to having the letter read out to her by Buki. It was all so like her and Maxi.

Tina had taken her to one side at night when she had sobbed out her story to this very kind hearted plump woman who made her feel safe. She'd been briefly on G wing a few years ago and had recently reoffended and returned to the same wing. She now saw others who sounded as 'thick' as she was but who had been rapidly making their way ahead at Larkhall while she had been free on the outside. Denny had learned to read and write and was starting to learn to paint while Julie Saunders had become a bit of a dab hand at poetry. She felt that she was the very bottom of the class.

"Why don't you take up a basic English class, Viv?" Nikki asked her softly. She was picking up a point that her personal officer, Dominic McAllister had passed to her from Tina.

"It's all right, Miss Wade, but it ain't for me."

"Is it just because you have bad memories of school, Viv?"

"Sort of," Viv mumbled, her eyes downcast, wriggling uncomfortably."…but it's easy for you. You talk proper. You sound dead clever."

"I didn't have a struggle with my studies but that's not all what goes down at school. You should know that."

Nikki refrained from mentioning that, because of the class gossip, she was 'outed' for lesbian activities and expelled from boarding school. Any idea of comparison wasn't going to help make her point. She may have heard of Nikki by her reputation round the wing but it wouldn't have felt real to her. The longer time went on, the fewer were those who knew her former identity. She wasn't sure if that was an advantage or a disadvantage. When she looked into a mirror, it was easy to remind herself that she was only Nikki after all.

"At least you ain't going to take one look at a school text book and think, oh shit, it talks double Dutch. What makes it worse is everyone's laughing at me when I open my gob."

"And were they?"

Nikki was absolutely sure that that was the last thing that the Julies had done but she kept silent on the point.

"Well, not quite but I felt they were."

She leaned back in her chair and carefully chose her words before she spoke.

"I've always felt that if I had to choose between the difficult and impossible, I'd always choose the difficult."

"Well, me learning proper English is like flying to the moon with no wings," muttered Viv.

"That's where you wrong. Thinking badly of yourself and carrying that cross around for the rest of your life, that's impossible. The longer you do it, the worse it gets. Now here, you'd be in a class that's friendly because that's the way that I run this wing. I keep an eye on what goes on. You think about it, it'll be easier here to learn where the girls care about each other. You're only in competition with yourself. Just give it a go."

Viv had the curious feeling that the cotton wool inside her head had floated away as the other woman talked to her without a trace of condescension and she ended up thinking more clearly. The jumbled up pieces of jigsaw were shuffled around and slipped into shape. Gradually, the process of a decision solidified in her mind. Her gaze was fixed on the other woman and as she sat back, she nodded her head. She couldn't trust herself to put it into words but she had the curious feeling that this very individualistic head screw knew how she felt.

Connie had never been in a situation where she was forced to refrain from activity and it had been ten days since her arrest. She hadn't fallen into the trap of counting the days as she knew that otherwise it would remind her of her complete loss of control over her future, something that she had taken for granted for a long time. When she thought of her years of frantic activity in a controlled kind of way, it seemed very removed from her and she was grateful for the fact. She needed that barrier and, above all, she had learned to take one day at a time or otherwise her position would have been insufferable. She knew that she was highly dependent on the small kindnesses that her newfound friends had bestowed upon her. Since one of the biggest dangers that she would have to face was sheer boredom, she was more than grateful for any small distraction that came her way.

This morning, it came in the form of Tina who was clutching her homework books and looking in her direction of vague hope.

"Excuse me, Connie, but I was hoping you'd give me a hand with this English homework," she asked bashfully.

This was a million miles away from the minor routine requests for advices from nurses when part of her mind was preoccupied with agendas for forthcoming meetings and the other half, with her eagle eye upon the running of the ward. At such moments, she gave hopeful supplicants short shrift. This time, she beamed kindly and gave Tina her undivided attention.

"Can we go somewhere quiet and work, Tina?" Connie asked half to herself while Nikki came onto the wing from behind her.

"What about the library? I'll come with you if you don't mind."

Connie exchanged glances with Tina who nodded and led the way to the library. Connie couldn't help but notice how Nikki had that knack for being non intrusive and how her presence wasn't questioned.

"Take a seat wherever you want, Tina. It's your class work."

Tina smiled and got out her exercise book.

"I've got this piece to rewrite and it's me spellin'. Whoever made up the English Language made it bleeding difficult for the likes of me," Tina explained as the three of them shared a table.

"It's all those 'e' sounds I don't get. If I write the word 'thief', the 'I' comes before 'E.' If I write the word 'receive', it's the other bleeding way round. If I talk about it all being 'Greek' to me, it's two bleeding 'E's. It sounds like some clever bastard set out to make it as difficult as possible to piss me off. Can someone explain why he couldn't make up his mind?"

There was a look of touching puzzlement on Tina's expression that both women warmed to.

"You're going to have to blame Dr Johnson on it," Connie explained patiently. "Years ago there was no written dictionary and he took it on himself to make up a dictionary that standardized spelling for everyone. I suppose he made compromises along the way."

"You could say that it was because he was a man but that would be unfair," put in Connie.

"Isn't it?"

"Well, be that as it may, we're stuck with it," Connie said decisively as a faint spark of her old 'I'm in charge here' spirit returned to her. She searched her mind for memories as, like Nikki, her English was perfect and she had to return to ancient memories of school.

"There are a few guides. For instance, it is 'I before E except after C."

"Is that what that clever doctor figured out," Tina enquired, her forehead furrowed with wrinkles.

"Probably not, Tina, but someone worked it out later. Someone who felt sorry for children and wanted to help them out."

"So what about 'Greek'?"

"Well, that's an exception. You're bound to find them. A part of the trick is to remember them. It will come in time."

Connie looked at the piece of writing. It wasn't badly written but told of Tina's upbringing. It told of Tina's life and described how narrow and circumscribed her upbringing was. It told of a claustrophobic run down London council estate and how hard and unfeeling life was around her. Written like this, petty crime was a natural way to get by just as her own life was that to be driven to climb the ladder of success and feel good about herself from her own sense of achievement. By comparison, the lives of the patients that had passed through her hands were the merest snapshots. .

Her sister had been the one constant in her life who had loved her in her own hard and unfeeling way. There was a growing feeling of rage in Connie's heart as she saw Tina's father through Tina's eyes who ran her down and criticized her despite what was obviously a warm hearted nature. Life shouldn't be that way, thought Connie. She could see why the prisoners stuck together and safety in crowds made more sense to her, to someone who had been proud, individualistic and ambitious.

"Suppose you think the writing is crap, Connie. I ain't got the way with words."

"Can I show this to Nikki as well if you don't mind?" Connie ventured softly.

Tina shrugged her shoulders. It was obvious to both women how painfully sensitive Tina was to their opinion and Connie could see that it was Nikki's intelligence, not her authority that made Tina nervous. Ages passed in tense silence while emotions flowed freely across Nikki's face and even Connie's outward coolness of manner melted.

"I ..I ..don't know what to say. It's very moving and tells me a lot that I never knew about you…" said Nikki in an uncertain tone of voice while Connie nodded. She thought that she had her problems when she was growing up, she thought inwardly to herself.

"Is it any good?"

"You are speaking your truth. It's certainly painful to read and that sort of thing isn't easy to write. No one could ask any more," Connie urged in unusually soft tones.

Tina blushed a delicate shade of pink. She really wasn't used to such praise.

"Your teacher must think highly of you."

"At least she ain't stuck me with the muppets. Story of my life."

Both women knew that Tina would never let her admit too much praise of herself. Like a medicine, she could only take small doses. There was a long silence

"So, you're all set up for the long haul with this class, Tina. In our considered opinion, we both think you're well away," Nikki urged with all the life giving confidence that she could summon up.

"S'pose I should."

"You know how keen I am for women to get access to real education while they're here, not just to lock them up twenty four seven."

"As if I don't know, Nikki."

"It's not just to have a better chance of getting a job though that helps. It's because that once you learn things, its something that no one and nothing can take away from you. You can take it wherever you are and it makes you feel better about yourself, something that should have happened but didn't. It's valuable in itself and means that you matter more than you think you ever did."

"Is that why you came back here?" Tina suddenly asked, her clear brown eyes looking directly at Nikki. The other woman took it all in her stride.

"Well, I haven't got a thing about uniforms. I'm really the same wherever I am but, yes, I want other women to have the same chances that I did."

The almost self deprecating tone of voice that the words were uttered in were reassurance enough for both prisoners in the still silence of the library.


	29. Chapter 29

Part Twenty Nine

Part Twenty Nine

When George drew up outside Larkhall on the Friday afternoon, she was pondering on the question that she needed to ask Connie. George needed to know whether or not Connie had anything resembling a police record, not something she had managed to find out in time for Barbara's trial, because she wasn't prepared to go into Connie's trial without knowing everything that she possibly could in advance. If Brian Cantwell found out anything slightly amiss concerning Connie, he would use it to his full advantage, something that she knew she would do if she was in his position. But how would Connie take this initial tentative probing into her past and private life? George simply didn't know. Connie might be completely honest with her, or she may try to hide it from her at all costs. But George had a backup plan in mind if the second possibility should occur.

Connie had been looking forward to George's visit, anything that relieved the monotony being only too welcome in a place like Larkhall.

"How are you?" George asked, sitting down in the chair across from Connie in the small private room they had been assigned for their legal visit.

"Better than I was this morning," Connie said with a rueful shrug. "Just at the moment, I really wish that I didn't have to do mornings."

"The morning sickness will go on for a few weeks yet, should you decide to keep it," George replied, and then blushed. "And I'm almost certainly telling you something that you already know." Bypassing George's slight blunder, Connie asked,

"Do you think I should keep it?"

"That isn't an opinion that I can or should give you," George said quietly. Then, into the resulting silence, she added, "All I will say is that you shouldn't rush into anything. I did that when I decided to keep mine and John's child, something that caused both him and me more heartache than I ever could have imagined." She stopped, looking to Connie as though she heartily regretted putting any of that into words.

"What happened?" Connie asked kindly.

"I really wouldn't go delving into that fairly enormous fiasco," George replied glibly.

"It obviously still hurts, whatever it is," Connie observed quietly.

"And it's the one thing in my archive that will hurt John, myself, and our daughter for the rest of our lives."

"However," She said after a moment's silence, "I didn't come here to talk about my less than successful attempt at being a mother." She lit a cigarette and pushed the lighter and packet across the table to Connie. "I need to ask you something that may on first glance appear unduly intrusive." Connie smiled and lit a cigarette of her own.

"George, after the way you went after me during Barbara Mills' trial, I'm amazed that there's anything you don't know about me."

"Well, the police contact I thought I had, didn't come up with the goods at the time." At the mention of the word 'Police', Connie's hand froze, suspending her cigarette briefly in mid air. Then, seeming to regain her composure, Connie returned the cigarette to her mouth, took a long drag, and blew a thoughtful smoke ring up at the ceiling. Just how on earth was she going to wriggle out of this one?

"There's nothing," Connie eventually said, though she was unable to entirely meet George's gaze.

"In that case," George replied carefully. "Why do you look almost as guilty as John did on the day I caught the pair of you together in chambers?"

"Please don't press me on this, George," Connie said quietly.

"Connie, in order to defend you to the best of my ability," George tried to explain to her. "I need to know everything about you that the prosecution could possibly use against you in court. With some of the clients I've had in the past, it won't be anything I haven't heard before." After a thoughtful pause, Connie said,

"I need some time to work out how to explain it."

"Okay," George said resignedly. "But take too long about it and I will go and find out for myself, because I am not going into this trial partially blind."

Connie was about to reply, but they were interrupted by Nikki putting her head around the door. Seeing that they were in the middle of a fairly quiet battle of wills, she came fully into the room.

"Are you two getting on all right?" She asked, though it was obvious that they currently weren't.

"Fine thank you," George told her a little stridently. Then, on an impulse, she asked, "When Helen was preparing for your appeal, were you entirely honest with her?"

"Not always, no," Nikki admitted a little sheepishly. "Not at the beginning anyway."

"And what did Helen do about it?"

"She copied my file on the sly, and was distinctly unamused that I hadn't told her what a complete screw up I made of my initial police statement. Why?"

"Oh, no reason," George replied, not entirely willing to betray Connie's confidence or lack of it. Looking thoughtfully at Connie, Nikki said,

"You really should trust George, you know, Connie. I watched Jo and George perform a miracle when they got Barbara off last February, and I can safely say that wouldn't have happened if Barbara hadn't told them everything she could in order for them to defend her so successfully."

"Advice received and understood," Connie replied quietly.

"You should trust your lawyer," Nikki said seriously. "Because when you're in a place like this, they're about the only person you really can trust."

"So I'm beginning to understand," Connie said, feeling a little too much under the spotlight. "I just don't find it easy to trust anyone, not with things I would rather be kept hidden."

"And as I said," George told her gently. "I will give you as much time as I can to tell me yourself, before I go looking for it."

"It could have been worse," Nikki said philosophically. "You could have been here while Fenner was still alive and working his influence on just about anyone who caught his eye." George shuddered.

"Thank you for that oh so charming thought, Nikki," George said disgustedly. "You've just provided me with enough nightmare fodder to last the next few days if not weeks."

"Sorry," Nikki said with a slight smile. "but having both sat through Lauren's trial, we can both be one hundred percent certain that he's as dead and buried as it's possible to be." On this note, she left them to it, thinking that had Connie been here when Fenner was alive, she would have been precisely the type of woman he would have taken a fancy to.

That evening during association, Connie wandered up to the Julies' cell, because she wanted to know more about the man George and Nikki had been discussing in front of her. She found them both writing letters to their children.

"Can I come in?" Connie asked, standing in the open doorway.

"Yeah, come in and sit down," Julie S answered, looking up from her letter to David. "You all right?"

"When Nikki looked in on my visit with George today," Connie told them. "They ended up talking about someone who they referred to as Fenner. I was wondering what you could tell me about him."

"Too bloody much," Julie J said disgustedly, putting down her own letter to Reannon.

"Hang on," Julie S put in, clearly having an idea. Then, walking out of the cell, she leaned over the rail and shouted to Denny to come up for a minute. Abandoning her game of Pool with Tina, Denny ran lightly up the metal stairs.

"Connie wants to know about Fenner," Julie J told her as she flopped down on the opposite bed.

"That shit?" Denny said in utter distain. "He wrecked more peoples' lives than Body bag eats chocolate fingers."

"He used to be Principle Officer on this wing," Julie S said, clearly starting from the beginning. "And he always had an eye for the girls."

"Bit of an understatement if you ask me," Julie J put in quietly.

"Yeah, well," Julie S continued. "Shell Dockley was his favourite."

"He had it away with her more times than she could remember," Denny added darkly. "Always making her think like she deserved being beaten up and raped and used, just like most bastard blokes."

"You remember Rachel Hicks?" Put in Julie J.

"Like I'd forget waking up to see her hanging from the window, just because of what that shit Fenner did to her," Denny replied with a shudder.

"Then, after a while of just Shell, he started seeing Miss Betts," Julie S continued.

"What, you mean Governor Betts?" Connie asked incredulously.

"Oh, yeah," Julie J confirmed. "So, because he'd started screwing Maxi Purvis and because Miss Betts had said yes to marrying him, we put a pair of Maxi's knickers and a porn mag from his locker in her in tray, just to show her what sort of a bloke he was."

"That was around the time Al and Maxi killed Virginia O'kane," Denny filled in. "But I wasn't here then because I was on the run with Shell, in Spain."

"You do lead interesting lives in here, I'll say that much," Connie said with a slight smile.

"Tell her what happened just after Crystal's baby was born," Said Julie S.

"Yvonne had made Fenner look a bit of a dick in front of the whole wing," Continued Denny.

"Not exactly difficult," Put in Julie J.

"Well, Miss Betts went round to see him," Denny went on tirelessly. "And he raped her."

After a slightly stunned silence, Connie asked,

"How do you know all this?"

"Babs used to make the officers' tea when she was here," Julie S explained. "And she heard Miss Betts and Mark Waddle, the officer she was seeing at the time, arguing about it in the officers' room the day after."

"The stupid shit didn't believe her," Put in Denny.

"Be very glad you weren't here when Fenner was," Added Julie J. "Because you're exactly the type of looker he would have gone for."

"You'd have had no chance," Denny said morosely.

"So I'm beginning to see," Connie replied, now heartily relieved that he was now dead and buried, if George and Nikki's conversation was anything to go by, and thinking that she had far too much in common with these women, one way and another.


	30. Chapter 30

14 Stevenson Place

Part Thirty

It was very rare for Tom to look aside from his life as a surgeon in a busy hospital where his life consisted of in infinite stream of operations stacked up towards the infinite horizon. He got up early in the morning, traveled the same route to work every day and all his energies were intensely directed towards the next operation as his mind worked at lightning speed and his hands worked precisely with the scalpel in his hand. These days, his confidence was buoyed up by the thought that there was no space between the public slightly theatrical persona he adopted and, whatever chaos might go on around him, he felt pretty centred and felt that he could go on indefinitely.

Tom had the chance to look around at his surroundings because if he didn't take a couple of day's holiday, he would lose his holiday entitlement.

"Tom," Ric had said, reminding him forcibly of this. "You might have the delusion that is common to all of us from time to time that St Mary's will collapse unless you are here all the time but you must have some time off. The rest of us will cover your lists even in Connie's absence and you might find that you have needed a short break more than you think you have. You will feel all the fresher for it."

Tom saw that Ric's sternness was really out of friendly concern and smilingly conceded the point. At the end of his shift, he reluctantly changed out of his scrubs and hovered uncertainly.

"And don't sneak in tomorrow when my back's turned," Ric admonished him from over his shoulder. The easy grin on Ric's face showed the light hearted concern he felt for Tom as a friend. Tom returned the compliment with a wry smile and headed for the car park.

Once outside, he felt dazzled by the daylight that greeted his eyes as his long shifts meant that he was used to going to work in the dark, spending his working time under fluorescent lights and going home in the dark. It was this clockwork routine that drove him forward, day after day. He felt disorientated and wandered round the car park looking for his car. As he slipped the car into gear, logic told him that he was taking overdue annual leave that was rightfully his to claim and, in fact, he was ordered to take it but the overwhelming sense of feeling was that he was bunking off school. He knew very well that there were many around him with similar untreated workaholic tendencies. It took him a little while to reason to himself the rightness of his actions and to drive off back home. He felt curiously peaceful, as if he were giving himself a well-earned treat and even the roads were quiet. When he finally got home, the feeling came over him that, as he was taken outside his normal routines, he ought to do something totally different from his normal habits.

It was then that the image of Jo Mills sprang into his mind. Just as Ric had advised him, he didn't need his sense of identity to be purely the forever-functioning surgeon. Certainly, it was easy to think that life at St. Mary's comprised the whole of his existence but, not that he had been gently prized away from it, he could see that life wasn't that one dimensional or shouldn't be. Jo Mills had come into his mind from his recollection of meeting her last June. It felt as if he'd opened up a book that he had read deeply and put on one side and had found the pressed flower between the pages as a memento. He could recall that unfolding of shared intimate feelings, which was the real thing as opposed to the American, derived free interchange of Christian names as a substitute for the real thing. He had met her on a handful of occasions and then proceeded willingly back to the chain gang. He resolved to himself on this September day that this would be different. With a diffident hand, he picked up the phone.

"Hi Jo, I was feeling at a loose end having been evicted from St. Mary's to take a break. I couldn't help but think of that very pleasant meeting we had a while back."

"I remember it as well, Tom and I know only too well what the treadmill is like. Modern living sometimes doesn't easily allow for anything else."

"I was wondering if you wanted to go out for a meal, Jo."

"Just for a change, any day this week would be fine.  
"What about this evening?"

"That would be splendid. I know the very place that would suit both of us."

"I'll trust to your judgment, Jo."

Inwardly, Tom knew very well that going out for a meal at a restaurant could pose the most innocent seeming, yet insidious trap for any recovering alcoholic. After months of self-restraint, the idea of enjoying a meal together was very tempting. After all, the voice said so reasonably to oneself, you've earned the right to a little relaxation and what could be better than the pleasant ambiance of a restaurant, feminine company and a gourmet meal? It felt so reassuringly normal. It was when one got there that the voice had so very conveniently overlooked the obvious fact that no restaurant is complete without the wine list and the bottle of wine. As resolutions clamour for attention, to resist the temptation, a siren voice insinuated its way into the reasoning process that surely a glass of wine won't harm? It is only after that forbidden taste works its way through the senses that the opposite is found to be the case. That sickening premonition kicks in, even as one reaches for the wine bottle that feelings of guilt will pour over one like a tidal wave- after the normal alcohol driven behaviour kicks in, even if it is only to get quietly and hopelessly drunk. Whatever it is, it is the bitter taste of defeat that one wakes up to the following morning. This time, it would be different, Tom thought gleefully, he would confront that monster and outwit him.

He was outside the restaurant, right on time when Jo Mills appeared out of a taxi with a big smile on her face. It wasn't the casual conversation that took place between them but the glowing expression on her face. She looked as pleased to see him as he was to see her. That feeling of being in sync was all the boost to his spirits that he ever needed. He was aware of the subtle sounds of Indian music as it wove its intricate background into the context of them meeting. The subdued lighting added to the mysterious otherness of the experience, which took both of them out of themselves.

They walked to a quiet side table as if a magic carpet transported them and took a seat. Tom ran his eye quickly over the menu and wine list, propped in the middle of the table.

"You'll notice that this restaurant serves non alcoholic wine. I though that I could certainly do with not putting temptation my way."

Tom smiled gratefully at Jo's solicitous nature. Over delicate references to Tom's past would have done him no good so she offered to take it on the chin herself.

"That suits me fine, Jo……I haven't eaten out in a restaurant for a very long time. I'd half forgotten what they were like. The atmosphere feels right here."

Jo could see Tom looking a bit dazed and she guessed that it would seem very different from the functional feel of a busy city hospital. He was still finding his feet

"It makes a welcome change for me to be taken completely out of my environment of the legal profession. A change will do both of us some good."

Tom caught the full force of Jo's brilliant blue eyes. It made him feel good about himself and not as a surgeon. That side of him was a million miles away right now and he was content to leave it that way.

"Let's order from the menu, Jo. I'm feeling peckish."

Soon enough, the stiff white tablecloth was festooned with an array of popadoms with mango chutney, mint sauce, cucumber and yoghurt raita, and onion salad. This was a casual informal affair with no array of the right knives, the right forks and the hallmark of the Great English Dinner. They could peck and nibble away over conversation, which took both of them away from their normal lives, while the background music played sympathetically behind them.

Jo was charmed by this man who was apparently so confident in himself yet not so confident as to confess this weakness of his. Neither of them spoke of it, as this wasn't the time to be preoccupied by past sadnesses and past defeats.

"I fancy something hot for the main course, Jo. What would you like?"

"Oh, I couldn't match you in that department, Tom. I fancy my favourite standby, chicken tikka masala."

"Don't you feel like breaking out of old patterns of behaviour, Jo?"

"Sometimes," Jo said in a contemplative fashion, a slow smile spreading over her face. She knew somehow that she needed a breath of fresh air and the temptation was irresistible as this. "Which is why I'm here right now."

"I'm having chicken madras as I feel like it, oh what kind of rice do you want?"

"Pilau rice and what do you say to a vegetable nahn?"

They were both pleased at how quickly they came to an agreement. It promised well for the evening where they had nothing to shelter behind.

A warm glow spread through Tom as he ate the meal. For once in his life, that sense time was time was abolished as he savoured both the meal and the company of the charming intelligent woman who was clearly smitten by him. He felt that he was more the person that he would like with this ray of light shining into his life. All of this pleasurable experience was wrapped up and enfolded by the twinkling sounds that surrounded them and the constancy of those blue eyes, which looked into the windows of his soul.

"Do you want to come back for a coffee?" he heard himself asking at the end and the slight smile on Jo's lips told him the answer. Neither of them wanted the evening to end at this point.

Jo wasn't too surprised to find that Tom's flat was Spartan clean and functional but was in need of some spiritual warming, as did its owner. He poured them a cup of coffee each and, now they were in the intimacy of Tom's home, they felt freer to appraise each other. Jo was struck by the impression of strength in the man's slight frame and hawk like profile as he occasionally looked away from her. The soft light from the table lamp set on a low table behind him cast a mysterious contrast of light and darkness, which, after all symbolized where they were both placed in life.

As they reached out for each other and kissed, long and deep, the unfamiliarity of the situation made Jo tingle all over. After all, she had been faithful in her fashion to first, her husband, then John and then John and George. Tom was a thoroughly satisfying and considerate lover. Their bodies were moulded together as they kissed and caressed each other and the physical satisfaction they brought to each other healed their souls. As they brought each other to orgasm, they each realized how precious the moment was as they lay gasping and spent. This was one form of satisfaction in life, with the shared intimacy with another human being that too many hours of solitary drinking was a failed attempt at reaching that same form of paradise. There was definitely not going to be a comedown and feelings of guilt the next morning.


	31. Chapter 31

Part Thirty One

Part Thirty One

On the Saturday evening, John and George were sitting contentedly in his flat, drinking some chilled white wine, and simply relaxing after a hard week's work.

"How're you getting on with Connie's case?" John asked as they sat ensconced on the sofa.

"Slowly but surely," George replied. "Though I wish she would learn to trust me."

"It takes time, George," John assured her mildly. "And Connie Beauchamp doesn't strike me as the type of person who would trust anyone easily."

"I know, and if I was in her position, I would behave in entirely the same way. But there's something she's not telling me that I could do with knowing sooner rather than later."

"What is it that she's keeping from you, something to do with the charge?"

"No, thank god," George said in some relief. "Something to do with her past police record."

"What makes you so sure that she's got one?" John asked in half concern, half curiosity.

"Because when I asked her if she did have one, she said no, but whilst refusing to look at me. she looked about as guilty as you did when I caught the two of you in chambers."

"Ah," John replied in understanding. Then, looking extremely thoughtful, he said, "I wonder what she's done."

"I have absolutely no idea. However, I did promise her that if she didn't tell me fairly soon, I would go and find out for myself."

"I should do that anyway, because you can't know too much about your client before you go into court."

"I'll see if Yvonne can track down the information for me. She can find out anything."

"I don't want to know," He told her firmly. "Yvonne Atkins and her hacking or intimidation skills notwithstanding, you shouldn't be giving me, as the judge you will be appearing before, due warning of your illegal activities."

"You know I love it when you're firm with me," She said, leaning over to kiss him lingeringly.

"I'm serious," He insisted.

"Yes, darling, so am I," She assured him, turning to lay her pretty legs over his knees as she continued kissing him.

"You're outrageous," He told her fondly, pulling her fully into his lap.

"But you love me for it," She said with a smirk.

"Of course," He replied, the love for her shining out of his eyes.

They were becoming lost in the sincere pursuit of their passion, when there came the sound of a key turning in the front door.

"Jo said she was coming over this evening," John said, realising that his hand was inside George's open blouse, caressing her bra covered breast. "She said she had something to tell us."

"Well, as long as it's nothing truly horrific," George replied, as they both rose from the sofa, "because I really can't do with the aggro." When Jo appeared in the lounge, they could see immediately that she was very on edge about something.

"It's good to see you," John said as they moved over to simultaneously put their arms round Jo.

"I'm not sure you'll agree with that statement when I tell you why I'm here," Jo told them, simply dreading the coming conversation.

"Darling, what's happened?" George asked, after gently kissing this woman who meant so much to her.

"Let's sit down," Jo said, wanting to put this off for as long as possible. As Jo and George sat on the sofa, John took his favourite armchair, getting the distinct feeling that he wasn't going to like what Jo was about to tell them. Taking one of George's cigarettes from the coffee table and lighting it, Jo began.

"I have something to tell you that I know will hurt both of you, but with everything there is between us, I need to be entirely honest. Believe me, I don't want to have to say this, but far better that I tell you now, and get it over with, than either of you find out from someone else."

"Are you trying to tell us," John asked her carefully. "That you're having an affair with someone else?" George stared at him aghast.

"Yes," Jo said after a moment's silence.

"And do you mind telling me who with?" John asked quietly. "Because let's face it, at this stage of the game, it could be a man or a woman, couldn't it."

"Oh, it's a man all right, isn't it, Jo," George put in, finally allowing her thoughts to surface. "Because I think we both know that transferring what little skill you've ever learnt on me onto another woman, would be just a little too challenging, now wouldn't it. You've never wanted to try most of what I give you back on me, so why would you want to try it on somebody else." John's eyebrows soared, because he hadn't previously been aware of any of this. But this wasn't his immediate concern.

"I ask again," John put in, "Who is this obviously charming individual?"

"Tom Campbell-Gore," Jo replied quietly, George's words having cut her to the core.

"Well, I suppose the two of you can at least get drunk without feeling too guilty about it," George responded scornfully, causing John to look almost murderously angry.

"George!" He all but shouted at her. "Either stop this right now, or go home."

"Fine," George responded tartly. "Because I've obviously outlived my usefulness for this evening at least." Picking up her handbag and collecting her cigarettes from the coffee table, she walked out of the front door, slamming it behind her.

Roaring off in her car, she spared a thought to what she'd said to Jo. She knew it had been highly uncalled for, but she was angry and hurt, a combination of feelings guaranteed to make the worst come out in her. But what on earth was Jo doing this for? Didn't she have enough with her and John? Quite clearly not. Why Tom of all people, though George supposed this was obvious. Tom could understand Jo's drinking problem far more deeply than either she or John ever could. He would know the feeling of needing a large scotch and not being able to have one for love nor money. Was this it then? Was Jo simply clinging to someone whom she understood and who could understand her?

On reaching home, George immediately put Faith Hill on the stereo, her full-bodied voice and chords providing her with the outlet for her anger that she so badly needed. She poured herself a very large, very dry Martini, and curled up in her usual corner of the sofa. She allowed the music to wash over her, bathing her in its collective warmth, though the chill inside her didn't entirely abate. Was this all about Jo reasserting her independence both from her and from John? What George had said had been right, because Jo's sexual interest in her hadn't ever been particularly invigorating, and George knew that she had always got far more pleasure out of bestowing sexual gratification on Jo than Jo had on her. In fact, if George was honest with herself, she could all too readily admit that Jo could probably find it extremely easy to do without the sexual part of their relationship. When she'd said those bitterly hurtful words to Jo, John had looked as though what she'd said was a complete surprise. But she supposed that he mustn't ever have noticed the fact that Jo was usually the one to receive pleasure and not necessarily give it, when they were all three of them together.

She was contemplating this realisation when the doorbell rang. Knowing that it probably wasn't John, because he would simply have let himself in with his key, she dragged herself up out of the sofa and went to answer the door, to see Charlie stood on the step.

"Charlie, this is a nice surprise," George told her, though feeling that she really hadn't wanted any company this evening.

"You don't look like it is," Charlie replied, taking in the evidence of tears that George had shed since she'd got home.

"It's nothing that won't sort itself out in time," She said as Charlie came in and closed the door. "Would you like a drink?"

"I've really come over to borrow one of your law books," Charlie said as they moved through the hall towards the lounge, "But yeah, thanks, that would be nice." After pouring Charlie her usual concoction of vodka and orange with ice, George returned to her corner of the sofa. "Mum, what's happened?" Charlie asked, taking the other end of the sofa to her mother.

"You could say that I should have expected it to happen sooner or later," George said ruefully, "but that doesn't mean it hurts any less."

"Has Dad been up to his old tricks again?" George laughed mirthlessly.

"No," She said, getting up to refill her glass. "Just for once in his life, your father is entirely blameless."

"Then if you're the one who's gone off the straight and narrow, I can't say I have much sympathy for how you obviously feel," Charlie replied, finding it only too easy to assume that her mother was the one in the wrong.

"That is precisely what I didn't need tonight of all nights, Charlie, thank you," George said a little acidly. "And no, it's not me who has gone off the straight and narrow as you put it, but Jo. You know, the woman whom you've always assumed to be entirely perfect and hard done by, where your father and I are concerned."

"I'm sorry," Charlie said quietly, but George waved a hand in dismissal of Charlie's luke warm apology. "I just wouldn't have thought Jo would cheat on Dad, that's all."

"Well there you are," George said bleakly. "It happens to us all, or so I'm told."

"Is she seeing anyone you know?"

"Yes. He's a heart surgeon who acted as a witness for that trial where Jo and I were for once fighting on the same side."

"I so didn't understand what was behind that at the time," Charlie said with a rueful smile. "And then after you came out of hospital and we had that row, I really didn't believe that Dad could love two women. But that was nothing compared to finding out just why you'd all managed to be so nice to each other for so long."

"You know something," George said with a slight smirk of glee at the thought of John's discomfort, "Your father never did tell me how that particular conversation went."

"I bet he didn't," Charlie replied with a laugh. "I've never seen him so flustered. He really had no idea how to even begin to explain it."

They talked for some time and consumed a fairly substantial amount of alcohol.

"Can I stay tonight?" Charlie asked, thinking of all the reading she was supposed to have accomplished this evening.

"Of course," George said with a smile. "Your room is still pretty much as you left it last time." As Charlie went up to bed, George switched off the stereo and put their glasses in the kitchen. She wondered how John was getting on, and felt a need to be close to him, a need to have his arms around her. As she stood cleaning her teeth in the en suite bathroom, it was as though her thoughts had conjured him out of thin air. She heard his car draw up through the bathroom window, followed by his key turning in the lock downstairs. As John walked up the stairs towards George's bedroom, he saw his daughter come out of the bathroom across the landing from her bedroom.

"Charlie," He said with a broad smile. "I didn't know you would be here."

"Neither did I," Charlie said as John put his arms round her and kissed her cheek. "Oh, by the way," She added, lowering her voice. "Mum's a bit drunk."

"I heard that," Came George's voice from her bedroom, where she was standing in front of the mirror, brushing her hair.

"You can't exactly deny it," Charlie persisted.

"And you have never, nor will you ever see me really drunk."

"Trust me, Charlie," John said conspiratorially, giving his daughter a covert wink. "It does happen very occasionally."

"Well, I don't know what you think you're getting tonight after a comment like that," George replied, a wicked gleam in her eye.

"You wouldn't really deny me my favourite pastime, after the evening we've just had?" John asked, sincerely hoping that she wouldn't.

"Stop right there, the pair of you," Charlie told them sternly. "Because I really don't want to know. There are some things one really shouldn't know about one's parents."

"So go to bed and put your headphones on," John told her with a laugh.

"You bet I will," Charlie promised him. "With the loudest music I can find."

When John had closed their bedroom door behind them, all light heartedness now gone, he took George in his arms and softly kissed her.

"Are you all right?" he asked into her hair.

"No, not really," She told him ruefully. "But I'm sure I'll survive." Then, after kissing him back, she added, "I'm glad you're here."

"There's something I wanted to talk to you about," He said, beginning to remove his clothes.

"Don't tell me," George said in understanding. "You want to know why I said what I did to Jo."

"Well, it was a little unexpected," He said, going into the bathroom to clean his teeth.

"I know I shouldn't have said it," George replied as she slid under the duvet. "And it's not even as though I've ever made it an issue between us. Jo simply doesn't like the idea of giving back most of what she gets from me. That's all there is to it. It doesn't especially bother me, though it does occasionally make me wonder just what she wants out of her relationship with me." When John reappeared in the bedroom and joined her under the duvet, he said thoughtfully,

"Maybe it needs to be explained to Jo precisely what she is missing." George laughed.

"Rather you than me, darling," She said, fondly kissing him. "Because I don't think you'll persuade Jo to try giving head in a million years."

"Ah, well there she really doesn't know what she's missing," John said with a smirk.

"Oh, I know she doesn't," George agreed with him.

"And is that what you'd like from me?" John asked her, really hoping she would say yes.

"With Charlie in the vicinity, you must be joking," George protested.

"She's listening to her music," John cajoled. "You'll just have to restrain your usual level of vocal encouragement, that's all."

"Well, I suppose that could be arranged," She said with a cat-like smile.

"Oh, good," He replied, his hands beginning to roam over her body. John's lips were so soft, so full, that when they lingered over her steadily hardening nipple, or kissed their way down her torso, she felt that every single molecule was designed specifically to give her pleasure. But when his tongue grazed the outer surface of her labia, moving to take in her juices and flicker delicately against her clitoris, George really knew what it felt like to be thoroughly worshipped. He drank in her sexual secretion as though it were a nectar from the gods, making her want to maximise his pleasure in return.

"Turn round," She said, laying a brief hand on his shoulder to get his attention.

"Are you sure?" He asked, not having expected this tonight.

"Yes," She said, turning onto her side just as he did. Soixante-Neuf wasn't a usual pastime for the two of them, but when it did happen, it was always fantastic. As he felt her mouth moving on his engorged shaft, he reflected on how lucky he was that he had such a generous and adventurous lover. This didn't mean that he loved Jo any less for not necessarily being as uninhibited, but he did wish that she would consider developing a more equal sounding relationship with George.

When John gently detached George from him and moved to regain his former position with his face close to hers, they were breathing hard.

"I love you," She told him as she spread her legs to accommodate him.

"And I love you," He replied, sliding familiarly inside her, both of them knowing that after Jo's revelation, a sincere pledge of affection and loyalty was what they both needed above anything else.


	32. Chapter 32

Part Thirty-Two

John was used to being awake at an early hour and he slid discreetly out of bed and quickly dressed, leaving George in a huddled pile underneath the quilt. Walking barefoot and dressed in trousers and white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, he padded down the staircase to the living room and found himself a book to bury himself in. He had made some progress in the peace and quiet when he laid it down on the chair arm and went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. What he didn't expect to see out of the corner of his eye was Charlie's presence. It went with the territory for adolescent daughters to lie in on a Sunday indecently late in on the morning. It went against the grain with John as he still felt as if he had to pack into his life as much as possible. After all, adolescence was the time of endless energy and discovering new facets of life. He wouldn't like to admit that his abstemiousness with tobacco and his early morning habits were a consciously perverse display of Puritanism as opposed to his notorious appetite for pleasures. This conundrum would puzzle and perplex the gossiping tongues amongst the establishment.

"Charlie. How good to see you up this early in the morning. Get a good night sleep?"

"Surprisingly enough, yes. The walls are thicker than I thought. They keep stray sounds down," Charlie said, delivering a meaning look at her father.

John laughed as heartily as he dared do with a sleeping George. His daughter's naivety to obvious facts contrasted sharply with her pseudo-sophistication.

"Charlie, has it ever occurred to you just how you came to take your place in this world. I would have thought your liberal education at the 'cess pit' as your grandfather calls it, would have enlightened you?"

"I prefer not to think of such matters," came the prim and proper reply, which John found intensely amusing.

"That's your street credibility right out the window."

"Dad, can we talk about something different, you know, the weather, politics, your favourite music, what life was like when you were young, anything."

"What about taking this cup of tea up to your mother? I'll drink mine here and contemplate life in general."

"Yes, yes, anything," Charlie said in a distracted fashion as she took the cup and saucer with a clatter and made a rapid exit.

Charlie made her way through to the bedroom when a disheveled looking George appeared from under the quilt, looking bleary eyed. Charlie's world was tilting on its axis in a dizzying fashion.

"Is that a cup of tea coming my way?"

Charlie nodded her head eagerly and smiled. She didn't trust her ability to form words right now.

"That is extremely thoughtful of you, Charlie. I need this more than I could ever say. My mouth feels unspeakable not to say my head."

"You look hung over."

"I shouldn't wonder."

George's perfectly natural manner, free from embarrassment made Charlie pause for thought and replied slowly and deliberately with unaccustomed warmth.

"You know, I don't think I ever used to see you without every hair in place and your makeup perfect. You look somehow more human. I can relate to that. It's just that everything is the opposite to what I've been used to….No let me finish and hear me out as I'm on a roll."

George nodded as far as the state of her head let her. Instinct told her to shut up.

"…..It's not been easy to hear that you two have been in this threesome with Jo that's made you and dad behave nicely to each other but I'm getting there. When I heard last night that you were upset, my natural instinct was to stack the blame on Dad, then you but never Jo. It's a lot to take in but what I really wanted to say is that I'm really, really sorry. What I said was unforgivable."

"So we can be friends?" George asked with a small smile before adding, "This is a lovely cup of tea. I'm not used to you acting as nursemaid."

Charlie waved away her mother's thanks and smiled inwardly at her curious mix of moods from tender to businesslike. It was so like her mother.

"I really don't get what Jo did but I've got to the point of giving up trying to understand

till I get a proper handle on the situation. It's not for me to pass judgment but for her to face the two of you."

"A very wise move, Charlie."

This delicate interchange definitely led to a very pleasant friendly chat as they both opened up.

"You don't mind me asking you a question, Charlie."

"Go ahead. It's a free country."

"At one time, if you had reason to come into my presence, you'd discharge the errand and make a run for it. I'm very flattered and love having your company as far as my hangover would let me but….."

"There's another explanation besides having a nice friendly talk, mum, much though I'm enjoying it. If I go downstairs, dad's threatening to tell me about the birds and the bees and how I came into this world. I can't face that."

George laughed kindly at her daughter's sheepish manner and hugged her close. It was a strange world indeed.

John set out to see Jo in a deliberately businesslike manner. He was absolutely determined that he was going to stick to the straight and narrow and give her a few tips as to how to conduct an impartial trial.

"Mind if I come in?" John asked in a very meek, polite tone of voice.

"You have something on your mind you wish to discuss, John?" came the formal reply, which left the possibilities distressingly wide open to John. It gave him spiritual agoraphobia and so he reached out for something specific that he could cling to.

"I don't want to interfere but I was wondering if you could do with a few tips on how to conduct the forthcoming Connie Beauchamp trial."

"By all means, John," came Jo's reply as she broke into a smile. Better this by far than her own trial. "I'd be interested to hear anything you want to say."

"Being a barrister, you are there to advocate your client's case while having half an eye to potential weaknesses that the opposing advocate will home in on. As a judge, you are there to hold the ring. It does sometimes demand the patience of Job."

"So, of course, you can't let your personal feelings show, can you?"

"You have to expect, of course, that Sir Ian and his sidekick Lawrence James may well offer you their words of advice and you will, needless to say, learn to be well armoured where in their world, anything goes if it serves for them to get their way."

Jo sat back and surveyed John with a curious half-smile on her face. She noted that John's expression and voice was studiously bland and devoid of all expression.

"It's very curious but in all the time I've ever appeared before you as judge and me as barrister, I'm only starting now to consider what I would do if I were in the hot seat."

"Your description of it is very revealing," John chuckled. "It isn't exactly a bed of roses, I mean, apart from the privilege of being door stepped by Sir Ian and his chief bag carrier, Lawrence James."

"Oh, I thought you enjoyed that," Jo said in a slightly sarcastic tone of voice.

"I do get a kick at seeing Sir Ian's helpless petulance but what I do is in a good cause. I never let private pleasures get in the way of my duty, my social obligations."

"Mind you, I will do what I think right. I won't be acting as your cipher even if you are the winger," Jo suddenly snapped, her blue eyes flashing at him. Her self-control suddenly snapped as she rebuffed his attempt to control her thoughts. Her pleasures were her pleasures and her guilt was for her to shoulder alone without any outside interference.

"I made a promise to Monty and to you," John said with hands upraised. "Surely that should be enough for you?"

"Normally, you're right, John, but sometimes events have the habit of getting out of hand whether or not you want it."

"Is this a personal 'you' or an impersonal 'you, Jo," John said in precisely articulated tone of voice. Jo caught her breath. He had revealed his hand at last.

"Damn you, John," Jo said explosively. "You have that irritating habit of trying to get to the point in the most circuitous of fashion."

"You do what you think right but just remember there are consequences. I've learned that one the hard way. I'm talking about your affair with Tom Campbell-Gore and the damage that you've done."

"Oh are you? Now you can see it when the boot is on the other foot."

"I can see what the two of you have in common, that you are both susceptible to alcohol and that gives you a bond. That friendship is obvious. To go further than that is foolhardy."

"Well, thanks for your amateur psychology. I suppose the truth is that recent events have hurt your male ego."

"Jo, It's not just me," hissed John annoyed at these shallow histrionics. "I own up to my past hypocrisy in this area and I know how much I stand to be judged wanting. I'll live with my own feelings but I'm talking about the effect on George."

"What about George?"

"It's like this. She's made it perfectly clear that when you and George make love together, you take a passive role. It's George that's the sexually adventurous one. It's interesting that she was right on the mark when it was perfectly conceivable that you could have had an affair with another woman. It's so obvious from what George is saying that she isn't secure in the love between you. Recent events, as you so delicately put it, haven't helped. It's not just fine words that matter but physically expressing and receiving love for another human being."

"And of course you get your pleasures out of our three way relationship."

"For the record, I am arguing George's corner because I love her as much as I love you. What else am I doing but holding the ring? Is it really that hard to accept rather than drop back into thinking that I'm reverting to type?"

The directness of John's gaze and passionate sincerity in his tone of voice struck Jo dumb. This was truly a new situation she had ventured into and the fallout was that they were changing roles. John undoubtedly had her at a moral disadvantage in their personal lives and she couldn't get a handle on this situation. Being Jo, she reacted according to type.

"This is all very noble of you. Doubtless you learnt this from your therapist," she fired back with a heavy sneer, looking in every direction but at John.

John was right on the point of saying 'Meaning Helen?' when he realized that Jo was totally in the dark about that aspect of his life. Reining himself

in, he hastily improvised an alternative answer and he mildly amazed himself with his simplicity and directness.

"However ignorant I have been in the past,

sooner or later I'll realize my mistakes and learn from them, with or without a therapist. Everyone has to put their own house in order, both me and you. You must and will rise to the occasion to do better than this."

"I'll think about everything you've said, John. I accept entirely everything you say about being impartial in the courtroom. I know that I must divorce my personal feelings so that I can dispense justice. Above all else, we must have a workable relationship in court.

I am encouraged by Monty's experience in working with you and I'm sure everything will work out for the best. Can you excuse me, John, as I have a lot to read up and prepare for?"

Jo's tight strangulated tone of voice told John that he had pushed the issue far enough. At the back of John's mind, he suspected that Jo was unconsciously buying off confronting John on a personal level by offering peace on a professional front. It occurred to John for the first time that Jo found it very hard to say sorry. He had never come across this before because, always in the past, he had been the one to have cause to apologize to her. His own feelings were more disturbed than he cared to let on, so keen and unselfish he had been in fighting George's corner. In that last respect, he had been totally sincere.


	33. Chapter 33

Part Thirty Three

A/N: Info on Ammiodoron gathered from 

Part Thirty Three

On the Tuesday morning, George thought that she may as well try once again to persuade Connie to tell her of the event in her past that she clearly wanted to keep hidden at any cost. Connie had said on the Friday that there was nothing in her police record, but George knew that Connie wasn't being remotely truthful with her. She knew that she had something of an uphill struggle if she ever wanted Connie to entirely trust her, as this was obviously something that Connie didn't do very readily, but any possible bad publicity where Connie was concerned was something that George needed to be aware of, if she was going to defend her in anything resembling a professional manner. George was still to some extent wound up after Jo's revelation at the weekend, and she thought that dealing with someone else's problems might help take her mind off the situation.

When George was yet again seated opposite Connie in the small, drab, legal visits room, she couldn't help but wonder what it was that Connie was trying to keep from her. But putting this to one side for a moment, she began with,

"I've had an email from Kay Scarpetta. She's done a few tests on the discarded syringe found at the crime scene, and she tells me that the inside of it bears traces of something called Amiodoron. I need to know what this is used for."

"Amiodoron is used to treat cardiac arrhythmias. You remember, that's why we had you so closely monitored after your surgery a few months ago. We had some difficulty trying to get Angela Masters back off bypass because her heart kept beating seriously out of time. To repair a hole between the two atria of the heart, the patient has to be connected up to the heart and lung machine before we start. You can't repair a hole in the heart whilst it's still beating. So, we use Amiodoron to even out any arrhythmias. It would have been given to you during your surgery."

"Okay," George replied, having written a few brief notes on what Connie had told her. "And would it have been usual for you to administer such a drug, once the patient was brought back to the high dependency unit?"

"Absolutely," Connie reassured her. "Any of us might have given that to her: myself, Will, Zubin, possibly one of the senior nurses, you name it."

"You signed in the patient's notes that you gave her this drug, so there's nothing the prosecution can make of that, which also means that whoever has framed you, must have retrieved that syringe from the clinical waste bin."

"Has she worked out what killed Angela Masters yet?"

"She's fairly sure it was an overdose of Pottassium Chloride, administered via the intravenous drip."

"Not exactly difficult," Connie replied in disgust. "It can stop the heart from beating in a matter of seconds."

"Connie," George asked carefully. "Do you have any idea who might be behind this?"

"I've hardly thought about anything else," Connie admitted with a shrug. "And I do have something resembling a suspicion, but until I have any proof, there's no point in discussing it."

"Talking of things that we do need to discuss," George said, finally taking the plunge. "Have you thought about telling me whatever it is that you wouldn't tell me last Friday?" Taking one of George's cigarettes that she'd left on the table and lighting it, Connie regarded George thoughtfully.

"I'd far rather not have to tell you this," She said into the resulting silence.

"Yes, I'd gathered that," George said dryly. "But if the prosecution gets hold of it, they'll have an unfair advantage if I'm not made aware of it." Then, as Connie didn't say any more, George added, "Connie, I'm not going to think any less of you, I promise."

"That's just it," Connie said, getting up and walking to stand in front of the small barred window. "You might, and as feeble as it sounds, I don't want that to happen."

"Is it really so bad?" George asked, fully understanding why Connie was facing away from her.

"God, no," Connie replied with a shrug. "If it was, I'd hardly have reached the dizzying heights of Medical Director, and compared to a charge of murder, it really is nothing to worry about."

"So tell me," George encouraged quietly.

Taking a deep breath, Connie said with a slight smile,

"You're not going to give up on this one, are you."

"No," George told her honestly.

"Okay," Connie said, taking what felt like her leap into an empty pool. "When I was sixteen, I received a caution for possession of cannabis, and a caution for soliciting." George's eyebrows soared. The caution for possession of cannabis didn't surprise her all that much, but the caution for soliciting certainly did. "Are you surprised?" Connie asked, turning to face her.

"Yes," George replied, not knowing what else to say.

"Also disgusted, irritated, and wishing after all that you hadn't taken on this case?"

"Connie," George said firmly, getting to her feet and walking over to where Connie was standing, seeing in an instant that Connie was incredibly defensive about this. "I said I wouldn't judge you, and I meant it."

"Why?" Connie asked quietly.

"Because I don't know why you did it," George replied simply. "I really don't think any less of you, honestly."

"You should," Connie told her miserably.

"Don't, tell me what I should and shouldn't think," George said firmly, laying a hand on Connie's shoulder. "I want to continue to defend you to the best of my ability, and just because at one time you opened your legs for a living, does not in any way diminish that wish. Connie, I have absolutely no idea what could have made you do that, but if you ever want to tell me, I shall certainly listen."

"Thank you," Connie said a little hoarsely, and George could see the tears shining in her eyes. George was only too aware that Connie would probably never tell her anything that it wasn't necessary to tell her, but it had pleased her that Connie had eventually trusted her with something so personal.

Totally on the spur of the moment, George reached out, and tentatively put her arms round Connie, feeling the tension singing throughout Connie's veins.

"You don't need to be so afraid of incurring my displeasure, you know," George said with a soft smile, her face very close to Connie's.

"Yes I do," Connie replied with a smile of her own. "You're one of my lifelines in here, if you did but know it." George was stunned, never having expected to hear something quite so heart felt and sincere from this woman. Then, to get them back onto a safer footing, Connie very successfully turned the conversation back on George. "You look as though you haven't been sleeping," She observed quietly.

"Not brilliantly, no," George was forced to confess.

"What's happened?" Connie asked in concern.

"Did you know that Tom is currently having an affair with Jo?" Connie put George slightly back from her and stared at her in surprise, still with her hands on George's shoulders.

"As in Tom Campbell-Gore and Jo Mills? No, I certainly didn't know."

"She says that it only began last week, but I'm not sure just how much I believe her. After she told us on Saturday, I went home and got fairly drunk, which probably wasn't such a good idea, and John and I spent too much of Saturday night trying to convince each other, if not ourselves, that she will in time come back to us. I suspect she will when she's good and ready, but that doesn't prevent me from being hurt and angry. Sorry," She said, finally coming to the end of her tirade, "You didn't want to hear all that." George tried to move away from Connie, but Connie still held onto her, allowing her arms to go of their own accord round George's thin shoulders.

"It beats constantly thinking about my own situation, I can promise you," Connie said with a shrug. "So think no more about it. It sounds as though both you and John need cheering up."

"I wish I knew how," George said dismally.

"Try something new," Connie suggested lightly. "You never know your luck."

"That'll certainly be something of a challenge," George said with a slight smirk. "In all the years I've known John, there isn't much we haven't tried. Oh, god, sorry," She said, putting a hand to her mouth, as though to prevent the spillage of any more badly chosen words. "Too much information."

"Coming from an ex-prostitute," Connie said with a wicked gleam in her eyes. "There'll always be something you haven't tried." Seeing the slight smile lighting up Connie's eyes, George couldn't help but emit a slightly nervous laugh.

They were stood close together, sharing their moment of light relief, when there came a perfunctory tap on the door, which was immediately opened to reveal Karen. She stood there for a moment looking at them, a thoughtful expression on her face.

"George, I wondered if you had a moment," She said, wondering just what she'd stumbled in on.

"Yes, of course," George replied, moving away from Connie. "I think we've achieved all we can for today," And thinking that she'd actually achieved far more than she would have suspected, including gaining at least some of Connie's closely guarded confidence.


	34. Chapter 34

14 Stevenson Place

**Part Thirty-Four**

Helen had wondered from time to time just if and when John would show up again in her life, professionally speaking. This time, the phone call came and John was at his most non-committal in terms of indicating what was on his mind.

"I can fit you in on Wednesday September 6th at 2pm," she pronounced in her normal friendly fashion.

"That will work out fine. The trial I was supposed to have presided over has fallen through. Her Majesty's Customs and Excise have seen sense in not pursuing the case, which to my mind leaked like a sieve. It saves me from having to take to task the unfortunate counsel for the prosecution. It seems that they are learning at last after all these years."

Helen wasn't sure what to make of John. He sounded confident and direct enough in asking for the therapy session rather than in edging his way into the conversation.

"No one learns all there is to know about life, not you and not me either, judge. It goes with the territory of being human."

John signed off the conversation on a distinctly perky note. On the other side of the phone conversation, Helen shook her head and smiled to herself. She never knew for sure what that very complex man had up his sleeve.

Sure enough, John presented himself ready for the therapy session on time. What reassured him this time was that this meeting wasn't about having to confess to behaving badly but that it was about Jo. He could deal with that.

"The last time I saw you just over two months back, you had confessed to shouting at Karen for saving Jo Mills' life after she had taken an overdose of alcohol and sleeping tablets. I recall that I advised you to apologize to Karen even though you said what you said for the best of reasons. Can you tell me how you got on?"

"Aah," John said, recalling events from a long time back. He feverishly ransacked his memories, as all those events seemed to be a long time ago. He had achieved closure on his retrospective anxieties about Karen boldly stepping in to save Jo's life with the help of Dr Waugh and having apologized afterwards that he was disconcerted in revisiting those events. Finally, his mind cleared as he assembled the facts.

"I finally apologized to Karen as I promised you….."

"Why the finally, judge?" interjected Helen with that challenging grin.

"You must know by now that I'm not that quick in apologizing for my bad behaviour and I had to imagine in my mind what I would say to her. You became the very convenient other person to mentally debate with."

"Am I that formidable or, more to the point, was Karen?"

"There's not much to choose between you," John answered laughing slightly shakily. "Finally, I steeled myself to visit her at Larkhall and said what I needed to say. She was very gracious and told me that she would have done the same if she'd been in my position. I went home to her place where she cooked me a meal and explained clinically what she'd done so I'd understand better."

"Just how important was the demonstration of facts as opposed to understanding feelings, judge?"

"Surprisingly to me, feelings came first and facts clarified the picture."

"Excellent, judge. You are learning though…..I don't think you came round just to be patted on the back, though that helps. Everyone needs that in life."

"I was talking to you about my anxieties about Jo, well thereby hangs a story. Everything has been going on swimmingly. I mean, my three corner relationship with Jo and George, everything. I even accepted Monty Everard's advice not to take on a trial because my sympathies were far too closely connected with the defendant. Instead of going about things in my usual bull headed fashion, I reached a fair compromise and agreed to sit as winger advising Jo Mills."

Helen knew for certain that amidst all the whirligig of words that spiralled round her, there was a lead if she could spot it. John didn't make it easy for her but then again, he never did. That was the one consistent quality of the man.

"It's always struck me how this unlikely relationship has stabilized you and probably George as well. Of the three of you, it has been Jo Mills who has been the steadiest, her alcohol problem aside," she pronounced in a slow steady tone of voice.

Immediately, she saw a look of pain pass across John's face and knew instinctively that she had hit gold.

"Yes, Helen, that has always been my perception of her…until recently."

Helen graciously allowed for a decent pause for John to collect his thoughts.

"So perhaps you tell me what happened recently."

"It all started last Saturday when Jo phoned me up at my flat to say she had something to say. Later on, George came round and when we were having a nice domestic scene, Jo appeared. The moment I saw her, I felt there was trouble. Jo blurted out that she'd been having an affair……..On being questioned further about it, she named Tom Campbell-Gore, a consultant at St Mary's Hospital."

John spoke in a tight-lipped fashion and merely detailed the bare facts to Helen before stopping. Helen knew that there was an awful lot more to come out.

"How did you and George respond to that bombshell? It must have come as a shock to both of you," she said sympathetically

"George was really upset by the whole thing. She had guessed correctly that there was another man involved when, logically speaking, there could have been another woman."

"Ten out of ten for lateral thinking, John but why did George make such a correct guess?"

"This relates to another matter that I wanted to talk to you about. The whole thing hit George harder than me. George has always felt that her sexual relationship with Jo is very unbalanced. George does more of the giving while Jo does more of the receiving. Between you and me, George has felt insecure where Jo is concerned and doesn't feel as loved by her as she should do. I know this for a fact from when the three of us are together in bed. This came as a complete bolt out of the blue to George and she shot off back to her house. "

John's account of his troubles was a revelation to Helen. She had to congratulate him on his facility with understanding how emotions and sexual pleasure went hand in hand. After his first awkward words, he had become much more fluent and his concern for George's welfare was obviously genuine.

"So what happened next?" Helen asked, going for the 'easy to answer' questions.

"As you could imagine, I wasn't exactly happy with Jo but didn't say too much that night. I preserved the civilities and told her that I was going over to see George. It seemed to me that I should act as peacemaker and that George would be more amenable to my presence than Jo."

"That seems a very mature judgment," Helen said approvingly. John brightened up at the compliment. Usually, Helen had that knack of prizing open the most unwelcome, well-defended secrets despite his best endeavours.

"When I got to George's house, Charlie was already there." continued John without any prompting, "George had had a fair amount to drink but was otherwise very glad to see me. In one of life's little ironies, George had let slip to Charlie that she was upset and Charlie, for once drew the wrong conclusion. There was a lighter side to the matter as Charlie was clearly uncomfortable with the thought that her two parents were going to stay the night and be physically affectionate with each other. It gives a whole new dimension of 'not in front of the children'- or rather 'earshot."

Helen looked with great interest at John as he told his story. He had flitted over his own sense of guilt and immediately leapt onto an obviously truthfully account of his daughter's embarrassment which clearly amused him.

"…..anyway, we settled down together while Charlie stuck her headphones on to listen to her music, not ours. We made love as much as any reason for me to reassure George that she was still loved. It was down to me to try and hold the ring together, especially when I had to talk to Jo the next day about how we were going to conduct the trial together."

"By the expression on your face, I understand that it didn't go down well."

"That's the trouble," John admitted, reverting to a much slower, awkward way of speaking. "I had resolved to stick to business, to talk about how I wasn't going to tread on her toes and take over the case. Everything I was trying to say seemed to come out wrong. Everything I said reflected my hurt feelings or at least Jo took it that way. She was totally defensive from the word go. I could understand her feeling that way as I'm notorious in interfering in court cases as you know very well."

Helen paused very deliberately as she was suddenly confronted with such a convolution of mixed up thoughts and feelings. His sudden quick smile at the end was particularly discordant. It was hard to work out where to start.

"You may not know the answer to this one but have you any idea why Jo of all people should suddenly go off the straight an narrow now that you've all three of you have built up such a stable relationship?"

"I can think of an easy explanation that Tom is a recovered alcoholic and this became a bond between them. I don't know if there's more to it than that."

"Do you know, John, in all this time you have not spoken one word of anger or hurt at what Jo has done? I mean, this is a double, not a single betrayal and Jo's edginess with you is something that logic demands she has no right to display."

John was taken aback by Helen deploying his own patented logic back at him.

"You've put your finger on the problem. I don't have to say to you that I have treated both George and Jo most shamefully over the years. Even though I feel I have made some slight amends recently, that doesn't give me the right to moralize at Jo."

"You might not think so but don't you think Jo did?" Helen asked softly. "That's why she got defensive. I agree that you being winger to her might make her tense but surely there must be this deeper aspect?"

John's mouth hung open. He hadn't figured this one out.

"You may be right, Helen. I must admit that the thought literally hasn't crossed my mind."

"That's because you don't even think you have the right to feel hurt at the way Jo has behaved."

John started replying in a halting fashion, as if he were feeling his way up a narrow crevice up a mountain where any slip off the path could tumble him into nothingness.

"It seems to me that the patterns of past relationships are more tenacious than I had ever thought. I supposed that once I helped talk our way forward with Jo and George to establish a new way of relating to each other, then I supposed that all would be right. It's not as easy as that."

"You've come on a long way, John," Helen said with a broad encouraging smile on her face. The sparkle in her green eyes warmed his senses. It mattered greatly to him what she thought of him. "This therapy session might be the first where you don't have to go away where you don't have to go away and make amends for your bad behaviour. For once in your life, you will need to arrange the situation that enables Jo to do what you have done in the past. She's the one who needs to honestly apologize and find her way back, if that can be done."

John laughed easily at this observation but with an underlying seriousness of purpose.

"Well, so be it Helen," John resolved. "Where there's a will, there's a way."

He didn't need to be told by her that he'd got it right. At last he was learning.


	35. Chapter 35

14 Stevenson Place Part Thirty Five

With no great enthusiasm, Jo readied herself for the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting as she put on her smartest suit. If alcohol was specifically denied to her as one psychological prop for facing a testing event, she reasoned to herself that she would be permitted to treat herself to a non-addictive substitute. Her shoes were polished and shining and the feel of the smartness and perfect makeup steadied her. All in all, she felt as physically sharp and prepared as she could ever be. Tom had promised to take her to the event, which meant that she was counting down the quarter hours, one after the other, till the time of his arrival.

It finally got to the point that she couldn't bear this waiting and decided to distract herself by immersing herself in one of her cases to kill the time. She picked up the file and spread the papers on her dining room table but soon found out that this wasn't going to work. Instead of her crystal clear mind sponging up the essential facts of the case, she couldn't summon up the concentration to persevere. Her mind kept skidding all over the place as she started to absorb the basic details and lost the thread in no time at all. It crossed her mind that, in order to deal constructively with other people's troubles, she had to be in a detached enough frame of mind about her own situation. She laughed bitterly at that unpleasant self-revelation as hadn't she been accused in the past, most particularly by George, of getting too emotional? In a fit of irritation, she roughly gathered up the papers and filed them where they belonged which was not at the here and now of her present existence.

For the twentieth time that morning, she checked her watch and paced round the room. Wouldn't Tom finally come or alternatively, when he did come, would she really want it?

It led her inexorably to the conclusion that, she being newest to the group would be the duffer in the class while others would be performing most splendidly. She realized that this was what she was most afraid of, more than anything else, especially that Tom would be one of the successes. She nearly stood up to phone Tom to devise some feeble excuse to put off the meeting when the phone rang first. That made her jump out of her skin and for a fraction of a second, she froze in indecision. It was only automatic professional habits that got her to pick up the phone and assume her normal telephone manner.

It was only later on that Jo realized where she was going, apparently having been whisked out of the flat and into a car by an attentive Tom, almost in an overdone fashion or so her jangled nerves were telling her. She suddenly remembered that many years ago, she'd accompanied her father to AA meetings and so therefore this was something that she should be familiar with. The trouble was that it seemed an awful long time ago and she could never have imagined that the same thing that had happened to her father was now happening to her. It all added to that overwhelming sensation that she wasn't functioning normally and wasn't very real.

"We're going to the group I first went to but don't get the idea that I consider myself, or am considered, the 'star pupil.' I know very well that you don't recover from alcoholism but that there is the potential for any of us to fall off the wagon if we let ourselves."

"Don't worry, Tom, I quite understand," Jo answered with a pale smile, seeking to reassure him as she normally did in situations like these. It didn't stop her from fiddling with her own fingers all the time they were travelling. Presently, they arrived at a large redbrick Victorian house which had the air of being the local community centre and various rooms served various purposes. It had a vaguely familiar feel about it.

She took in the well-educated articulate woman who led off the proceedings and watched her intently to pick up the guidelines of this meeting.

"Welcome, everyone. It's nice to see so many familiar faces with us but of course, the purpose of this group is to reach out to newcomers who may have taken the most difficult decision to come, not knowing what to expect. That's the hard part. The easier part is for us to help others to talk about themselves as well as to do the talking ourselves."

Jo's mind was all a blur of the names and self-introductions that ran round the circle till it came to her turn. Her mind suddenly sharpened up, feeling all the attention turned in her direction and she felt most uncomfortable. A stream of words poured out of her mouth in no particular order.

"Well, er, my name is Jo Mills and I've decided, that is, it has occurred to me that the way I drink might be, er, not in my best interests and it's working against what I need to get out of life whatever that might be."

Immediately, Jo put her head in her hands. She could have died where she sat. This was her, Jo Mills whose profession was the spoken word and here she is, she comes out with a load of gibberish. She took a grip of herself and carried on in a calmer vein.

"Perhaps it would be better to give a bit of background on myself. I'm a hard-working barrister who's brought up two children on my own and who are at university. This is because my husband died of cancer when my children were little and since then, I've struggled on. The trouble is, that when I've been stressed, I drink more than I should."

The ears that heard Jo and the eyes that watched her could tell straightaway that Jo was extremely defensive and the account of herself was very abbreviated. It was normal for newcomers to only talk about what they were most comfortable in relating. It was what this well-spoken woman wasn't saying that was most important. She let the moment go and asked others to talk about their experiences. Jo's interest was grabbed so long as the focus of attention was off her. She heard the single man, divorced from his family explain very emotionally how he'd blocked off his sense of separation by using alcohol as a crutch and that while he'd achieved a sense of balance of sorts, it was very precarious. She heard another woman describe how alcohol had woven its way into the fabric of her family and how she'd come to see that both parents were, at their very best, half adults and how each of them had let them down in her childhood. Account after account followed where each human being wasn't too ashamed to relate the stories of their lives, however demeaning it might be. She saw all sides of life from the top of society to bottom. Furthermore, she heard how those who once had achieved a sense of balance, had fallen off the wagon and were struggling to get that back. There was no assured outcome of 'and all ended happily after' about any of them. Finally, Tom explained how he'd been on the wagon for the past three years after a spell at a drying out clinic after his drinking habit had escalated to the point when he couldn't go into an operating theatre without a nip of scotch to keep him going. He described his shame at knowing how he was teetering on the brink of disaster all the time but couldn't stop this self-destructive habit.

"If there's one thing I've learnt, it's that self-knowledge isn't enough in this area of life," he concluded in words that were inscribed on Jo's mind. Hadn't she thought the same a long time ago when she was trying to understand her own father? It was in this thoughtful frame of mind that she was asked to expand on what she's said earlier on.

"I'm sorry for holding out on you all, earlier on. I've not told an untruth……." Jo said more easily with a warm smile and hesitated while she looked around to formulate the right words.

"Don't worry, that's understood."

"I…er…I have had this on off affair with a very attractive and charming high court judge at the time my husband was ill and I was nursing him. I became pregnant by him, that's the Judge, soon after my affair with him had started. Everything just got totally on top of me and I asked my mother to look after my children for a bit. I felt I couldn't cope

with life. That's when I had a drinking phase. I needed that sense of release as I was so tired and depressed. I didn't think I could look after my children."

"So what happened, Jo? It sounds from what you've said that somehow you got yourself out of an impossible situation or you wouldn't be here."

"Not very creditably," Jo said in a sombre tone of voice. "I had an abortion with my lover's agreement. It seemed all for the best at the time. I broke off relations with him, at least for the time being and tried to make it into a friendship. I thought that it would give me some balance in life."

"And did you?" the voice asked. At that moment, Jo looked around and felt the weight of the respect of the others round the table. They looked at each other and wondered to each other at the sight of this slim, attractive woman who had had led an exemplary life, on the whole. She'd had her problems, which had led her to drink, but they felt this very tense vibe coming from her, as if she didn't deserve any praise that came her way. They wished that she could absorb the sympathy, which she was perfectly well entitled. Jesus, one or two of them thought, I am this attention seeking person, constantly bewailing my bad fortune, endlessly calling out for sympathy and here's this woman who is stoically plugging on regardless. She has been plain and upfront in talking about her affair with the judge but this sort of thing happens in life.

"In the short run, yes," Jo said. "I mean I have a career, which I find personally satisfying, and I have two sons of whom I'm proud. Considering the situation they have sometimes been in, they have turned out to be remarkably strong and well balanced……." Jo said with a deep sigh of guilt that her sons did well, more in spite of her mothering skills rather than because of them.

"So what happens to cause you to fall off the wagon from time to time? You'll have heard that some of us drink regularly and have gradually stepped up our intake to the point that our ability to function normally starts to break down. Others start off what is loosely called 'binge drinking' at the weekends to celebrate and end up needing this as less a conscious choice and more as something we can't do without."

"I suppose I manage to look after myself in life until I hit a crisis of some kind and things fall apart. For instance, I was representing a highly intelligent 15 year old boy who was set against having a heart transplant operation. His reasons were his beliefs in the sanctity of life because of animal research, which was at the back of the operation. The Judge decided to play God and chose to override the wishes of the boy in favour of his parents. That upset me emotionally more than I could describe. I got drunk, drove over to the Judges' digs to pick an argument with him and ended up being put to bed by him. The worst of it all was that I was seen leaving the digs by a fellow judge looking much the worse for wear who jumped to the wrong conclusions and I ended up hauled before a professional standards committee i.e sleeping with a judge that I had appeared before. I got out of that by the skin of my teeth…….you see the sort of scrape I land myself in," Jo admitted shamefacedly.

"So who cares for the carer, eh? Is that part of the problem along with setting impossibly high standards for yourself? You probably know that realizing something is one thing and acting on it is something else. I feel you've been under the spotlight long enough for one session," the voice responded in sympathetic tones. She could see that the glare of the spotlight was starting to hurt Jo's eyes

"Yes, something like that," Jo answered in hurried tones, looking away from the other woman, her eyes flitting back and forth. All the supercharged emotions from that event started to well up in her and made her look visibly upset. She had thought she had got over that episode. She hadn't even got on to talking about her three-way relationship with George and John and her overdose last June but her head was starting to explode.

"You've been very brave Jo," Tom added in heartfelt reassurance.

After the meeting was finished, Jo leant on Tom for comfort as she sought the fresh air outside. She needed any sort of comfort and she was glad that this sympathetic man was around yet she had that unpleasant fleeting sensation that she was at the wrong place and with the wrong person. Where were George and John, she asked herself?


	36. Chapter 36

Part Thirty Six

It was Saturday the ninth of September, and the sun was streaming through the tiny barred window of Connie's cell. She was reclining in a half-sitting position on the bed, trying to take advantage of any ray of sunshine that managed to permeate the small aperture. Scattered around her on the bed were numerous cardiothoracic journals that Ric had left to be given to her after he'd visited her yesterday afternoon. Notebook and pen in hand, Connie was valiantly trying to give all her attention to a journal article she had promised one such publication some months ago. Resting on the flimsy prison issue table were a couple of reference books thoughtfully lent to her by Thomas Waugh, who was fast becoming the one actual friend she had amongst the officialdom of Larkhall. Connie was being forced to make a concerted effort to make her handwriting more legible than usual, as it would be Ric who would type this out and send it off for her. She had some quiet classical music playing on her clock radio come Cd-player, and for all that she was locked up in prison, bound not to see the outside of the place until her trial, Connie could be said to be relatively content. She had resolved to make the best of her confinement, and not to dwell too much on those things that she could currently do nothing about. She knew that without the support of the friends she had made on the inside, Ric and especially George over those first couple of weeks, she would have gone under altogether. She knew just how much she owed all these people, and when, or if she was ever given back her freedom, she would do her utmost to make everything up to them.

But as she sat there, idly scanning the next article for the precise quote necessary to accurately illustrate the point she was attempting to make, her cell door was thrust unceremoniously open, it being the time of association when prisoners could move between one another's cells. Cursing as her pen slid in shock across the page of the article she was reading, Connie looked up to see the very frightened face of Julie Saunders.

"Connie, you've got to come quick. It's Buki. She's cut up again and Nikki and Miss Betts told her that if she did it again, she'd be given a stretch on the muppet wing."

"Then perhaps that's precisely where she should be," Connie replied, returning her eyes to the journal.

"No, Connie, you don't understand," Julie all but begged. "She'll crack up if she ends up there, anyone would." Laying the journal face down on the bed so as not to lose her place, Connie finally gave Julie all her attention.

"Just what are you asking me to do?"

"Patch her up, without the screws being any the wiser," Julie told her simply.

"Then you'd better hope she hasn't made too much of a mess of herself," Connie replied as she got up from the bed.

"That's the trouble," Julie said laconically, "She has."

"We'll see," Connie replied, clearly making no promises whatsoever.

As they descended the metal stairs and crossed the wing, it didn't evade Connie's notice that Sylvia appeared to be the only officer in the immediate vicinity, and as she was clearly watching television with some of the inmates, she didn't pose any real problem. But when they entered the four-bed dorm, any thoughts of a calm and relatively peaceful Saturday afternoon flew right out of Connie's mind. Buki was lying on the top bunk of the left-hand set of bunk beds, with Julie Johnson standing next to it, pressing a wadded up sheet over the gash in Buki's left arm, whilst being closely observed by Al and Denny.

"All right Julie," Connie said quietly, "Let me see."

When Connie gently lifted the folded sheet from the wound, the blood began to flow much more freely.

"You silly girl," Connie said in mild reproach, sounding far calmer than she actually felt. "Okay," She said, turning to the group of women who were avidly watching her every move. "Somehow, I'm going to need one of you to get down to the hospital wing and grab gloves, a needle, and some sort of surgical thread, as well as a decent supply of dressings." Waving a hand imperiously in Julie Saunders' direction, she made it clear to whom this task was delegated. "Denny, if you can trust your razor-headed friend here, both of you go and start a fight, so that old Body bag out there can be distracted long enough for you Julie," Again looking at Julie Saunders, "To steal her keys to go and get the things I need to sort Buki out." When the three women had gone, two to stage the fight and the third to retrieve what Connie had asked for, Julie Johnson said quietly,

"What do you want me to do?"

"I need you to come here, and stand by Buki's shoulder," Connie directed. "I'm going to show you how to put pressure on the brachial artery, the main artery that feeds Buki's arm. Squeezing this artery is the quickest and most effective way of slowing down significantly the bleeding from her wounds. Now Buki, can you keep holding this pressure pad in place while I show Julie how to stop you bleeding a lot less than you are now?"

"Yeah," Buki replied timidly.

"Good," Connie replied, never rebuking her for putting them all into such a precarious situation.

As Connie demonstrated to Julie how to hold the main artery of Buki's upper arm between finger and thumb, they heard the general chaos and uproar of Denny and Al's staged and extremely believable fight. Praying that Julie Saunders would be successful in purloining Sylvia's keys, Connie reflected that slipping so seamlessly back into her healing profession, her natural way of life, was so instantaneous no matter what the actual setting.

"Hold onto that artery as though it was your own life you were maintaining," Connie warned. "Don't let it slip even for a moment while I have a good look at this cut." Dampening some tissue, Connie removed the pressure pad from under Buki's hand and wiped away some of the blood. It was immediately obvious to her that this was a favourite cutting place of Buki's as there were numerous old and recent scars scattered liberally over her skin.

"You really do make a habit of this, don't you," Connie said thoughtfully.

"Sorry," Buki barely murmured, the tears now running freely down her face.

"You don't need to say you're sorry to me," Connie told her kindly, "You need to say it to yourself. No one deserves this kind of mutilation."

"It's like, it feels like it's the only thing that'll make me feel better."

"And does it?" Connie asked, gently probing the extent of the wound, and knowing that it didn't.

"Not really," Buki admitted miserably. "But it's the only way to get the bad out of me."

"Buki, darlin', you're not bad. Least ways, no more than the rest of us in here."

"Julie's absolutely right," Connie told her firmly, though knowing through long experience that if a regular self-harmer had a reason to keep on doing it, nothing would usually persuade them from their old familiar quest.

"What set you off this time?" Julie asked, needing to find some way of filling the tense and awkward silence.

"It's Lennox's birthday today." This was enough explanation for Julie but not so for Connie.

"Who's Lennox?" She asked.

"He's my son," Buki told her. "I had him when I was thirteen and on the game. I gave birth to him in the toilets in King's Cross station, and left him there." The last four words of this pronouncement were uttered with such pain and guilt that they made Connie wince.

"Buki," Connie said softly, trying to regain the girl's attention, through the sobs that wracked her whole body. "I will do what I can to stitch you up now, but one day, you must try to let go of the guilt you are obviously feeling."

"I've been seeing Dr. Waugh for what he calls Cognitive Behavioural Therapy."

"Don't knock it," Connie told her, hearing the clear evidence of dismissive scorn in Buki's tone.

"He tries to make me talk about what it was like before Lennox was born, when I was carrying him, and he tries to make me say that it wasn't my fault I had to leave Lennox, but it must be."

"No," Connie told her quietly. "You were thirteen, very likely sleeping rough and probably not earning very much if your pregnancy was visible."

"How did you end up in here, Buki?" Julie asked her, "I've forgotten."

"Knifed my pimp," Buki replied simply.

"That's all they're good for," Connie replied with feeling, her own street days briefly looming up in her mind.

Suddenly, they heard the sound of running feet and Julie Saunders appeared in the cell, her overall pockets bulging with the supplies Connie had asked her to find. Dumping them out on the table, she said,

"I got you some of those alcohol wipes and a tourniquet. I thought you'd need it."

"Julie, you're a star," Connie said wholeheartedly, unwrapping the tourniquet from its packet and putting it around Buki's upper arm, pulling it tight. "You can let go now," She said to Julie Johnson, who stood back out of the way in relief.

"What've you done with Body bag's keys?" Julie J asked Julie S.

"Left them on the Pool table, make her think she'd left them there all the time." Pulling a pair of surgical gloves over her long-fingered hands, Connie unwrapped a couple of the alcohol wipes to thoroughly disinfect the wound.

"Shit!" Buki cursed violently.

"I know, it hurts like hell," Connie agreed with her. "And I'm afraid that for a little while, it's only going to get worse." Deftly unpacking the needle, she threaded it and approached Buki's arm. "I wish there was more direct light in here, but we'll have to make do. Now, Buki, you swear as much as you like, because this really is going to hurt. Julies, you may both need to hold her down." Standing in readiness should they be needed, the two Julies watched in awe as Connie began neatly and meticulously to sew up the jagged gash in Buki's left arm.

"No wonder you're a top bleedin' surgeon," Julie Saunders commented in total appreciation of Connie's skill.

"Jesus, couldn't you have nicked any anaesthetic?" Buki demanded through gritted teeth.

"No, I bleedin' couldn't," Julie S replied hotly. "That's locked up in the Doc's office and he was in there. I had to be bloody quiet getting the other stuff as it was."

"And you did very well, Julie, thank you," Connie told her earnestly, gradually knitting the layers of skin together.

"And if the screws find out about all this, we'll all of us be lucky if we don't get a week or more down the block."

"Yeah, well, that's life," Connie replied philosophically.

"We shouldn't have dragged you into all this," Julie J said a little regretfully.

"What, and allow me to miss out on proving that I can still cut it at my old job? You must be joking." As she said this, Connie looked up with a sheepish smile. "Sorry, wrong turn of phrase. There," She added, tying off the last suture, "All done and dusted. Now all it needs is a clean dressing, which I recommend you change once a day for the next five to seven days."

"I got plenty for you," Julie S put in, gesturing to the pile of dressings on the cell's one table.

"Thanks a lot you guies, I owe you."

"Please, just think about what I've said," Connie told her seriously. "You don't need to do this, so try putting some effort into your sessions with Dr. Waugh." Removing the blood-stained gloves and dropping them in the waste bin and washing her hands, Connie reflected on just how similar she really was to some of these women. After all, she had just as much guilt festering away inside her as Buki did.


	37. Chapter 37

**Part Thirty Seven **

In Gayle Hollamby's busy social life, Sunday morning was the best time to squeeze in a visit to her mother's, which miraculously coincided with that ridiculous shift pattern. Her dutiful parental visit was made on the way to more fun and games at a friend's house. She exchanged the usual family chitchat over a nice cup of tea, before she finally looked at her watch and started hunting around for her missing car keys. She was sure she had slipped them back into her handbag but they refused to appear despite turning her bag out on the dining room table.

"Where did you put my car keys, mother?" she demanded.

"If only you would settle down and make your mother a happy grandmother like our Constance has. You can't have your fun forever, you know. Bodybag said in answer to her own previous line of conversation.

"Never mind all that, I've got to find my car keys. It's important," insisted Gayle to finally gain her mother's undivided attention.

"They're here on the dining room table where you put them down in the first place. I don't know, you young ones. You'd forget where your head was if it wasn't screwed on. It takes the older generation, especially one who's worked many years in the prison service to know that everything has its proper place in the world. A little organization is all it takes."

Gayle sighed in redoubled exasperation, none too pleased at her mother's smug expression and patronizing tone of voice even though she acknowledged how hard working her mother was. It was her assumption of perfection that irked her.

"Have you never made a mistake in your life?" she asked incredulously." I mean you were demoted for a short while once."

"Nonsense Gayle. If I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times. It was all down to that Miss Betts. She'd had it in for me," scoffed Bodybag from her conveniently edited version for family consumption.

"And now, she's Governor now, isn't she."

"Never you mind, I'll survive them all." Came her hasty response." Now, you'd better get off to your friend's. You can't keep her waiting."

After their brief kiss, Bodybag turned towards the sitting room and redoubled her concentration on that puzzle. She knew she wasn't getting any younger but the thought haunted her how she had come to mislay her keys the other day. One moment, everything had been was fine and the next minute Blood and McKenzie had started some stupid fight over nothing. To make it worse, those two troublemakers had interrupted her right in the middle of her favourite soap. She had huffed and puffed her way to sort them out while Julie Saunders was playing the fool. It was only a little while later that she had slipped her hand into her pocket and had found them missing. The only prison officer on duty had been Gina and she knew she could expect no mercy from her. Eventually, she had decided that the best solution was to head for the PO's mess and have a cup of tea. It was only that she had finally come back on the wing when they miraculously appeared on the pool table. Furtively, she had picked them up trusting that nobody was looking.

She had reverted so quickly to her normal overbearing self that she had shouted at Al McKenzie for just looking at her in a disrespectful fashion. It had made her feel so much better even if the slow witted Al had just looked incredulously at Bodybag and had shaken her head in wonder, as puzzled as Bodybag came to feel the following day.

By some strange process, both prisoners and prison officers alike got used to living in an enclosed world, shut in by drably painted walls, lit by the glare of artificial lighting, flavoured by the ever present cigarette smoke and the indescribable atmosphere of communal living. On weekends, both Nikki and Karen were normally excused the hard grind of shift-working that prison officers had to maintain. Both women were sustained by the blissful knowledge that Larkhall Prison would run satisfactorily while their backs were turned. The possibility of Connie Beauchamp's unofficial bit of surgical operation was of course furthest from their minds, as they lay on their recliners in their back garden, enjoying the warm sunshine and sipping a cooling drink.

Any institution runs by familiar habits and routines, which all inhabitants become initiated to fairly quickly. This Sunday morning made all the prisoners cheer up, especially when the morning sunshine shone in through the narrow windows of each prison cell. It was finally on the allotted hour that the prison bars were thrown wide open and the prisoners were allowed to run down the concrete flight of steps. The blinding sunshine and the smell of the fresh air went to their heads like some intoxicating spirit. Dominic had been around long enough to allow for the prisoners' natural giggling high spirits as they scurried down the steep stone staircase.

Dominic and Gina couldn't take quite the same rosy outlook on association as they took up their positions. Both knew from past experience how it was the ideal opportunity for a fight to be faked, enabling drugs to be thrown over the prison walls. They both knew that they needed eyes in the back of their heads and to know the prisoners. It took only a matter of seconds before a fight started for real. Right now, only Natalie Buxton needed watching, as she was as sneaky as any hard case prisoner they'd ever known and she was the prime source of any trouble kicking off.

Buki was more subdued and thoughtful, wearing a loose long sleeved top. After some hesitation, she finally came out into the fresh air and walked down the steps in the last of the line along with Julie Saunders. Already, the friendly shouts of the more boisterous prisoners filled the air as they cavorted on the well-trimmed grass.

"You'll feel great to get some fresh air in your lungs, darlin'. You did the right thing coming with us."

"I feel so bad. I messed everyone around, especially Connie."

"Don't worry, Buki. Take it from me, her bark's worse than her bite, well, she can bite but she'll pick the right one," Julie Saunders said, wondering if she made sense. She knew what her mind felt but she wasn't sure if the words came out right.

"When she was talking it was, like, she knew all the shit I've been through, you know, with my pimp and everything," Buki said in halting tones much to Julie Johnson's relief.

"She's dead posh but she's an understanding woman," Julie Johnson pronounced confidently.

Buki said nothing. She was highly conscious of the wound on her arm and hoped that no one could see through the thin protective material. She knew what her public reputation was, and was scared that her guilty actions would be written all over her face for all to see.

Connie's spirits were lifted as much as any other prisoner as the warm breeze ruffled through her hair. The fact that she demonstrably still possessed her hard earned skills made her stride proudly out onto the grass. Her silhouette was sharply noticed by one Kristen Yates whose soaring spirits took a romantic turn after she had gone through the period of depression and withdrawal that all prisoners went through from time to time. The way she carried herself, the curve of her upturned nose, the way her dark hair curled round her ears all roused her libido. She stood stock still while the sunlight gleamed over the wall and illuminated her

Denny could still remember the ironical look in Nikki's eye as she had called her into her office and, dressed in her favourite black suit, she had told her in official phraseology that, having reviewed her sentence plan, the gardening job was hers for the asking. Both Denny and Nikki knew very well that, behind the lightly phrased tone of voice, Nikki had sincerely offered her the job in sincere recognition that Denny could be relied upon. Denny had grinned openly at the twinkle in her eye had told her that Nikki knew very well what the job entailed. 'Just don't leave the shed a tip, Denny. I still have fond memories of it.' Denny reassured her in her inimitable way that she'd do her best, man.

Consequently, Connie strolled forward along with the Julies and Tina. Somehow or other, word had got round what Connie had done for Buki and respect for her caused her friends to gravitate to her. While she was gently strolling along, she suddenly faced the bright sunlight, which momentarily dazzled her. She automatically carried on in a straight line while her friends had wandered off to the right. Suddenly, she felt herself bump into another woman and automatically apologized. She wasn't sure if she accidentally banged into another woman or the other way round.

"You should watch where you're walking. You never know what you're getting into," the voice said to her with an obvious undertone of meaning

"Natalie Buxton, I see," came Connie's unfazed answer.

"Well well, quite the hero of the hour, aren't you, or so I hear," Natalie said in a vicious tone of voice.

"Sorry, I don't know what you mean. Now if you excuse me, I want to catch up with my friends," Connie replied politely, yet neatly cutting the other woman dead at the same time.

"Bitch," aggressively muttered a voice from a blond-haired woman wearing combat trousers and a scowl on her face. She had been walking behind Natalie and had seen the incident being deliberately manufactured.

"Oi, Buxton, you watch it or you'll be up on a charge," came Dominic's voice from a little bit further away. He had strolled around the grassy area, looking casual but the pattern of his footsteps had taken him to chat in his friendly way to the women under his charge and to also to keep half an eye on Buxton.

"Sorry, Mr. McAllister, we must have banged into each other by accident," came the sweetly yet falsely smiling reply, as Natalie Buxton strove to extricate herself from trouble.

Connie turned away and caught up with Denny who was enthusiastically digging up the earth round a flowerbed with a hoe with strong deliberate movements.

"You're working while everyone else's taking it easy, Denny?"

"Well, just for a bit, man. This garden takes a lot of looking after even this time of the year."

"I heard about the diversion you and Al did for us," Connie said in respectful tones.

"Piss easy man," Denny eagerly answered, grinning all over her face. "I've done it on and off for years. You get the timing right and a mate who knows what she's doing and, oh yes, Bodybag on duty and you're well away. Even after all these years, she falls for it every time. She don't ever learn."

"It got us all the time we needed to treat Buki," Connie confided.

"We were dead lucky you was around. If you weren't around, Buki could have died on us. If you want any help, just tell me, man," Denny said earnestly.

Connie graciously thanked this dependable woman whose allegiance wasn't won lightly. The two women continued to chat awhile and laughed easily amongst themselves. Finally, Connie sensed that Denny couldn't wait to resume her work so she strolled along comfortably back to the security of the crowds. Finally Kris caught up with Connie and eagerly engaged her in conversation

"Do you know, I've never been in an all woman institution?" Connie said reflectively for no conscious purpose at all.

"There's good and bad," came the laconic reply." You get bitches like Buxton but you can get away with things here that on the outside, would get the local Nosy Parkers down on your back. There are opportunities here, if you see what you mean."

Connie's reaction to the little smirk on Kris's lips was cool, making her more desirable in the other woman's eyes.

"That's one way of looking at prison."

"You need someone to protect you, Connie." Kris said, looking into the other woman's eyes with an intensity that she couldn't hold back any longer. "I could be so good for you if you'd only let me."

For the first time for a long time, Connie coloured delicately, not least for being a little slow in picking up on the other woman's line of conversation. She ruefully conceded that had the other person been a man, she would have spotted it a mile away.

"Thank you, Kris, but no. I've got a lot to get my head around and changing these habits of a lifetime isn't at the top of my list. I'm happy to be friends with you as I like you but, no further."

Kris blushed furiously to find that her desires were blocked in this way but she had to hand it to this woman in the classy way she put it. Other woman had simply slagged her off to her face.

"I'm not going to force you, Connie. You might not believe me but I'm not like that," Kris said, her voice choked with emotion.

"I believe you, Kris," Connie said softly to the other woman in a way that slightly sweetened the bitter pill she'd been forced to swallow.


	38. Chapter 38

Part Thirty-Eight

As luck would have it, Dominic cheerily gave Buki a sealed note on the Monday after her self-harming incident. It told her that she was down for a therapy session on Wednesday morning.

"A therapy session. I need something to cheer me up, innit,"she said in a disconsolate tone of voice.

"Cheer up, Buki. Look on Dr Waugh as a really understanding guy. He'll sort out your problems, yeah."

Buki didn't answer. In a way, it was harder dealing with men who treated her properly. If she messed up, they made her feel worse about herself, not better. She couldn't bear to think about telling the doctor that she'd cut up again and let him down again. It was fortunate that Dominic went on to deal with another problem and left her to her own worries. As she nervously got ready on the appointed day, she was only too conscious of her stitched up arm and how the man could see through her. Somehow, she felt that he could kill her with kindness and all his long words could see right through her. She made her uncertain way alongside Selena, feeling that she was going to her own execution. She could picture the man behind his desk, speaking in that posh accent, dead confident,

and knowing all the answers.

********

Thomas Waugh ran his comb through his thick unruly hair and placed Buki Lester's bulky file in front of him. A large steaming hot mug of coffee at his side couldn't dispel the sinking feeling in his stomach as he studied the papers. He was quite frankly nervous of facing her problems because he felt so inadequate. The fact that the man was positive and cheery in his outlook despite his share of life's hard knocks was almost a problem. For the life of him, he couldn't get an emotional handle on her self-harming. It seemed like the ultimate expression of negativity, of the most extreme instance of self-hating that he could think of. He was acutely aware that his powers of empathy either totally failed him or refused outright to go there. On an academic level, he knew that it was like any other form of addiction, one that kept its tenacious grip somewhere in Buki's psyche and the fact that it was perverse was almost the point.

He swallowed a mouthful of coffee, and started to reflect on the worst moments in his life to gain some purchase on the matter. He recalled the sick feeling in his stomach, a sense of betrayal as he remembered when his wife had run off with his best friend. He could only recall a nebulous period of darkness before his native drive and his work ethic pulled him together. He recalled how his dreams feverishly invested in that rare spirit, Helen Stewart, turned to dust in his hands but even then, he was now on the best of terms with her partner, Nikki Wade. He was especially thankful for her presence as she and her helpful subordinates possessed the eyes and ears around Larkhall that he needed. She collated all this information and relayed it to him, possessing that intuitive sense for what really mattered, however trivial it seemed. He appreciated such sympathetic backup as he remembered with exhaled anger how life at Larkhall had been after Helen had left and the reactionaries had been back in control. The trouble was that these troubles felt a long time ago and since then he had 'picked himself up, dusted himself down and started all over again.'

In this way, his thoughts finally zigzagged their way back to the positive and focused on what lay before him. Certainly, the last interview had gone well. Buki had reported eagerly that she was seeing the light and was feeling positive about herself at last. He had allowed himself a small feeling of satisfaction but not too much hope. That feeling had sustained him right up till Monday morning when that feeling of gloom had descended on him when he had realized that a lot of water had flowed under Buki's bridge since that last meeting.

As he heard the footsteps coming, he hoped for the best as he switched his mind into gear.

**********

He generously held out his hand as Selena escorted a reluctant, blank faced Buki into his room. He gripped her rather limp hand briefly and waved her into the armchair. Her sudden fixed smile and awkward body language gave out mixed messages.

"Take it easy, Buki," he offered.

"Yeah, Dr. Waugh,' came her submissive response, knees drawn tight into herself.

"So how's life been treating you since we last met?"

"I, like, tried to do what you said to, being positive and all that and not let my bad thoughts into my head," Buki said, halfway trying to convince herself of what she wanted to be true. After all, that night when she'd cut herself was a few days ago. She was in a different place now so she would make believe she was doing fine.

"Just how easy have you been finding this?" Thomas asked in even tones.

"Well, it's prison, innit. I have to do what I'm told. I think of my little boy on the outside and that gets me down sometimes."

"Do you have any worries that he won't be looked after properly?"

Buki stared vacantly for a little while and her eyes flitted about the room while she thought for the words she ought to say.

'I know, like I'm reading a book that he's being looked after, yeah? Most days, I feel like this. Only there's a day that I can't make it real like I believe it. Some days there's light days. Sometimes, there's black days."

"How much control do you have over this?"

"Not all the time. I try to think positive, like you told me to do. Sometimes it doesn't work."

Thomas was struck by the way that Buki relayed words back to him that he'd slowly and carefully offered her as a refuge that she could cling to. He'd done his share of book learning but he'd come to believe in them as something he could wear like clothes. His regular interaction with Karen and Nikki meant that he had tested those words out with others who were like-minded. By contrast, he was becoming uncomfortably aware that Buki had, at best, only completed this process of assimilation. The phrase 'at best' was kindly meant but cruelly exposed the gap between wish and reality.

"You've still got good friends with you, even at night, Buki. How real are they at nights?"

"Sometimes," Buki said promptly, a half smile on her face. "The Julies talk to me and make me feel good about myself and, like, I'm silly to let my bad thoughts get to me."

Thomas became slowly aware of how awkwardly Buki was sitting in the comfortable armchair. Instead of letting her hands rest naturally on the chair arms as it was designed to do, her right hand reached out to her left elbow, her fingers restlessly stroking her skin. Her eyes weren't engaging with his either.

"Is there something the matter with your arm, Buki? I'm a qualified GP and not just an ordinary trick cyclist."

His attempt at self-deprecating humour fell flat as a pancake. He saw the look of fear in her eyes and became conscious of how she really felt. Everything up till that point wasn't a cool calculated lie but an attempt at make-believe, which hadn't worked, least of all for herself. She read his slowly forming suspicion in his eyes, which crystallized into solid certainty. This was why she feared him. He saw too much.

"I really think I should examine your arm, Buki. It is for the best."

With an intense look of shame on her face, Buki slowly rolled back her T-shirt arm. As Thomas looked on, he expected to see a slash in Buki's arm. What he hadn't expected was a deep wound, which had been astonishingly and neatly sewn up with surgical precision. His mouth hung open in astonishment as he fumbled for the medical notes in the file to cross-reference this unexpected reality. Logic told him that such a professionally treated injury should be equally professionally reported. It was only afterwards that he smiled at the absurdly slow speed with which the cogs in his mind had revolved, drawing the inevitable conclusion.

"All I want to know, Buki is how this injury has come to be treated."

"It was that new doctor," gasped out Buki in a desperate attempt to lie her way out of this situation, as the consequences came home to her of her compulsive desire to be found out."He don't know what day it is though he's good with a needle. He's always losing his specs."

"I must hand it to her she's done a marvelous job in sewing up your arm. I am humbled by her skill…."

"Oh good, then everything's cool. Look, it's only the once. Julies talked some sense into me so I won't never, never, never going to do anything like this again. I swear it on Lennox's life……"

"Not so fast, Buki. I do want to talk to you how this happened. I respect the way you're taking this on the chin but you know as well as I do that these things have to be done properly…"

At this point, Buki's eyes were downcast. She knew that she'd lost everything.

"Let's put it this way. I'd bet three month's supply of peanut butter that this wound wasn't stitched up by any of the doctors that are in my practice….."

Word had past round Larkhall Prison's efficient grapevine about Thomas's devotion to peanut butter sandwiches. The quirkiness of his reply got right through Buki's guard. In a twisted way, she found that men who were bastards were easier to deal with. She knew where she stood with them, like her pimp, and they couldn't make her feel bad about herself.

"….which means that it was done by someone not working for the prison system and with clear medical competence," Thomas pursued in his relentless fashion, "….so perhaps you care to tell me what happened."

"OK, so I did cut up bad," shouted Buki angrily. "It's what you want to hear, innit."

"The last thing you need from me is me passing judgment," Thomas said slowly, clearly and deliberately, trying to fix Buki's gaze, "but I do need to get to the bottom of this. Anything medical or psychological is on my watch. I can't brush this under the carpet as I could be letting down my colleagues. Their faith in me is my responsibility that I have to carry. You see how it is, Buki."

Dumbly, Buki nodded. This was the first direct communication that day. She could see that Nikki and Miss Betts were his mates. She knew what the game was.

"OK, so I cut myself up last weekend when only a few screws were around. The rest of you were tucked up in your comfortable houses for the weekend. If the Julies hadn't called out for help, I would have bled to death. Only Bodybag was around. Gina was someplace else. You won't get the Julies in trouble?"

The appealing look in Buki's eyes commanded Thomas' desire to offer her comfort just at the right time.

"I would never blame anyone else being concerned about their fellow human being. You know that, Buki."

The man's infinitely kind eyes and soothing words got to Buki in ways she couldn't describe. They always made her confess all while Bodybag's tactless, hateful hectoring made her turn cold and hard inside.

"OK, so they called for Connie," Buki mumbled, not meeting his eyes. "Don't know how but she sewed my arm up. She was dead kind when I was scared of what she might say to me…like you do, sometimes."

Thomas laughed softly at the idea. He had no idea that he might be that formidable.

"I'm really not that scary, Buki. I don't shout at you."

"It's not the way you say it like some of the screws," Buki said, looking him right in his eyes for the first time since he came across her. "It's what you say. It scares me cos it's all true."

"All right," Thomas conceded graciously. "Do you want to talk about something less heavy to give you a break?"

"But I've still got to take my medicine, don't I?" Buki said with a strange sense of wisdom.

"You'll like it in the end, Buki. When I was a little boy, I used to hate my mother's cough medicine. I used to keep my mouth shut and aggravate my mother. I was a right little terror at times."

"You had a mother what cared. I bet she was a good one," Buki said promptly. Inwardly, Thomas became more reassured as Buki opened up as he had cut her some slack. It was strange that in his profession that the more indirect way of approaching people got there quicker in the end.


	39. Chapter 39

Part Thirty Nine

A/N: This is for Emma, because she asked so nicely for it.

It was during lock up on the Wednesday morning, the thirteenth of September, not long after ten o'clock, when the door to Connie's cell was thrust unceremoniously open.

"Seems you've been a naughty girl," Sylvia sneered in her most patronising tone, "stitching up girls on the quiet who are stupid enough to make mincemeat of themselves."

"Well, with the attitude to the girls that you display on a regular basis," Connie threw back in disgust, "it's hardly surprising that they do cut up from time to time."

"That's enough out of you, Madam," Sylvia told her firmly, "Up and out here, now."

"Why what are you planning to do with that undersized brain and severely oversized body of yours?"

"It's down the block for you, and not before time," Sylvia replied with what could only be described as glee.

"You wouldn't get me down there in a million years," Connie told her with false confidence, hardly able to believe the words that were spewing like a torrent out of her mouth.

"If I had my way," Sylvia replied, just as confidently, "you'd be down there for a week, and in strips."

"Why's that then?" Connie asked almost silkily, getting up and walking towards Sylvia. "Want a good look do you? Hiding some unmentionable urges inside that ill-fitting uniform of yours? It wouldn't surprise me," She continued thoughtfully, "Because it's a well known fact that the ones who protest the loudest are really the ones concealing leanings of their own." Sylvia's hand came out and slapped her so hard and so fast, that Connie slightly reeled, her hand twitching to touch the bruise she was sure was appearing on her cheek. But she refused to give Sylvia that kind of satisfaction.

When they heard the click clack of shoes coming up the metal stairs, Connie and Sylvia abandoned their staring contest.

"Come on," Sylvia said with a lot less confidence than before, "Like I said, it's down the block with you." When Gina appeared on the scene, her eyes immediately went to the reddening handprint on Connie's left cheek.

"Just how did she get that, Sylvia?"

"I don't bloody know," Sylvia almost whined. "Some con obviously gave her what she's been asking for ever since she came here."

"And I'm about to win Miss World," Gina replied in disgust. "This isn't over, Sylvia. Now, shall I take her down the block, you know, in case she acquires any other injuries on the way?"

"Oh, do what you like," Sylvia told her, walking off in a huff. Looking thoughtfully at Connie, Gina asked,

"Well, are you coming quietly or not?"

"I'd have come quietly the first time if she'd been remotely polite about it," Connie replied, wondering just how she was going to wriggle out of this one.

"You know why you're going down the block, don't you," Gina said as they walked together down the metal stairs.

"For saving someone's life apparently," Connie said a little dismissively. "It seems that's frowned on in here for some reason."

"Connie, you're intelligent enough to know that it's not the saving of Buki's life that the hierarchy in here has a problem with, it's the fact that you did it very much underhandedly and didn't tell anybody afterwards that you'd done it."

"And just what would that have achieved?" Asked Connie in disgust as they walked out of the wing and down the corridor towards the segregation block. "All it would have done was to give Buki a stretch on what is, I'm told, called the muppet wing, and if they've got officers like Sylvia Hollandby running it then I'm not bloody surprised that she didn't want to go down there. I suppose that's what you're going to do with Buki now anyway," She said a little sadly.

"I don't know," Gina said honestly. "That's for people higher up than me to decide. The thing is, Connie, you can't just go around stitching someone up just because you can."

"Then find me someone in here who could have done it better," Connie demanded hotly. "At least by doing it myself I know it was done properly."

When Connie was shown into the drab, not so clean bare cell on the punishment block, she gaped in total disbelief.

"This is fucking barbaric," She said in utter disgust.

"I'm afraid that's just tough for the time being," Gina told her stoically. "One of the Julie's will be around in a couple of hours with lunch." When the sound of the clanging metal door had thoroughly resounded around Connie's skull, she started to think. Just how could she speed things up in here. She was all too aware, from things that the other girls had told her, that someone could be down the block for a week before they were granted an adjudication, and Connie knew that no way in hell was she staying down here for as long as a day if she could help it. Then she hit on the idea of whichever Julie brought her lunch.

When Julie Saunders opened the flap in the cell door to push Connie's tray of food in, Connie got up off the concrete slab that served as a bed and moved swiftly over to her.

"Julie," She said before Julie could speak. "I need you to do something for me."

"I thought you might," Julie said good-naturedly, "Do you want your brief to get you back on the wing?"

"Very much so," Connie said in sheer relief at Julie's understanding. "There's a phone card I can give you when I'm out of here, but they'll probably have locked the door to my cell by now."

"Don't worry about that," Julie told her kindly. "Do you know George's number?" Connie had to think for a while, in which time Julie went and delivered the rest of the dinner trays to the occupants of the punishment block. When she came back to Connie's cell, she was holding a biro with the back of her left hand poised to be used to write on. When Connie told her George's office number, Julie faithfully wrote it on the back of her hand.

"Don't worry," She said when she'd done this. "I'll phone her as soon as I get back to the wing and tell her what's happened."

John and George were sitting having a light lunch in George's office, when the call came.

"It's a Julie Saunders from Larkhall prison for you," Her secretary told her.

"Put her through," George said without delay, wondering why on earth Julie was calling her. "Julie," she said when the call was put through to her, "what can I do for you?"

"It's not me who needs your help," Julie told her hurriedly, "its Connie. Last weekend she did a rescuing act on Buki after she'd cut up, and the screws have just found out about it and put her down the block."

"What on earth for?" George demanded, "It sounds as though she helped rather than hindered. What's wrong with that?"

"Buki's under a strict threat of being sent to the muppet wing if she did it again, so obviously Connie didn't tell the screws what she'd done."

"With your help, I suppose," George said with a slight smile in her voice.

"Yeah, something like that," Julie replied a little sheepishly. "The thing is, I don't think Connie would cope with being left down the block till her adjudication."

"So she wants me to try and speed things up," George stated thoughtfully.

"Yeah, if you can," Julie agreed.

"I'm on my way," George promised.

When she put the phone down, George turned to face John.

"It seems Connie's got herself in a little trouble, by stitching up a cutter on the quiet, and now that the officers have found out about it, they've put her in segregation. That was Julie Saunders who rang. I'm going to have to go and ask Karen what the hell she thinks she's playing at, putting a pregnant woman in segregation for saving someone's life."

"I suspect that isn't how she sees it," John told her thoughtfully.

"I don't care if that isn't how Karen and her so-called trained officers see it, that's how I see it, and I want some answers."

"Can I make an observation?" John asked tentatively.

"If you must," George replied, getting to her feet and putting her mobile and other paraphernalia into her handbag.

"Don't you think," John asked her somewhat carefully, "that you're getting just a little too emotionally involved with Connie's case?"

"No," George said without a hitch. "Connie is my client, and it is my job to do the best I can for her. What more is there to it?"

"You'd never have done this for any of your other clients," John pointed out.

"Well, Connie's different," George replied as she picked up her car keys.

"That's my point," John said with a wide smile as he got to his feet. "You do think of her differently because you, to some extent, regard her as a friend."

"And is there any reason why I shouldn't?" George demanded angrily.

"No," John told her mildly. "I'm just asking you to be careful, that's all. If she is found guilty in the fullness of time, I don't want you to feel as though you've failed, when I know that you're putting far more than you usually put into a case, when you always put everything you have into fighting for your clients, well-paying or otherwise."

"But that's the point," George said, sounding extremely regretful. "If she is found guilty, I will have failed, because I know, with every shred of certainty I possess that Connie Beauchamp would no more kill a patient than you would take a bribe from my ex."

"Bribes from Neil Haughton aside," John said in utter disgust that she should even suggest such a thing. "You can't know of Connie's innocence with quite so much certainty as you claim."

"But I do, John," George protested vehemently. "I am coming to know things about Connie that if they come out at the trial, will probably shock you to your very core, but I still know her to be innocent of the crime with which she has been charged."

On her way to the prison, George briefly smiled when she thought of John's asking if he could come and watch when she'd expanded on what she would have to say to Karen when they were stood in the car park of her office. He'd looked almost excited at the thought of she and Karen going hammer and tongs at each other, but George had told him that this was no laughing matter and no, he certainly couldn't come and take a ringside seat. But her face turned serious again at what she needed to accomplish. She knew only too well that Julie's assertion that Connie couldn't cope with being down the block had been more than vigorously understated. So, when Dominic, who had been coming back from his lunch break led her up to Karen's office, she walked with the confidence of someone who had an absolute right to be there.

"I don't need to ask why you're here," Dominic said conversationally. "But what I would like to know is how you found out."

"I don't divulge my sources, Mr. McAlister. You should know better than that." Dominic might have taken offence at this, except for the slight smile on George's face. As he left her at the door to Karen's office, he simply told her good luck.

When George strolled into Karen's office after being bid to enter, she almost laughed at the resigned acceptance on Karen's face.

"You don't hang around, do you," She said as George moved to stand in front of her desk.

"Not when my pregnant client is in segregation for helping somebody in their time of need, no, I don't," George responded tartly.

"Just how did you find out so quickly?" Karen asked in utter amazement.

"You'd be surprised just how far the Larkhall grapevine spreads, and what can be achieved at a moment's notice," George said, clearly trying to rattle Karen.

"Was it one of my officers?" Karen demanded, needing to know the truth for her own peace of mind if nothing else.

"No, it wasn't, but that's hardly the point," George replied, determined not to drop Julie in it. "Now, what we need to discuss is yours and your officers' treatment of my client. Care to explain?"

"You might as well sit down before you burst a blood vessel," Karen said with a shrug, gesturing to a chair opposite her desk. "Last weekend," She continued, "Connie, with the help of several others, managed to not only acquire needle, surgical thread, dressings and god knows what else, and stitch up Buki's badly lacerated arm, without any of my officers on G-wing being any the wiser. Buki was talked into revealing this series of events in her session with Thomas Waugh, and it is therefore left to me, and my officers to deal with it. Further to your involvement, this is an internal prison matter and does not warrant the presence of a lawyer."

"Connie obviously feels that it does," George counteracted. "She clearly feels that she is being unfairly treated, and I have to say that I agree with her."

"You don't understand," Karen said a little wearily, "inmates don't have the right to the presence of a lawyer at any kind of prison adjudication."

"Is there something specific in the prison handbook that tells them that?" George demanded, feeling fairly sure that their wasn't. Reaching behind her, Karen lifted the hefty prison handbook from the top of a filing cabinet, and thudded it down on the desk. As she began to leaf through the pages, looking for the rules surrounding adjudications, she had a sneaking suspicion that George was going to be proved right.

Eventually looking up and meeting George's eyes, Karen admitted that no, there wasn't anything in the rule book that said that inmates couldn't have a lawyer at an adjudication.

"It just doesn't happen," She protested, as though this would make any difference to George.

"Yes, only because most of the inmates don't know any better," George concluded. "So, would you like to send for Connie so that we can get this mess cleared up?"

"I don't have any choice, do I," Karen deduced stoically, before phoning down to the punishment block, to ask for Connie Beauchamp to be brought up to her office, immediately.

When Connie was shown into Karen's office, she looked mightily relieved to see George already there.

"You needn't look like that," Karen told her succinctly. "Because you might find out in a few months' time, that George won't always be able to get you out of trouble." George winced, and Karen could see the words "You bitch!" as though George really had said them out loud.

"I'm sorry," Karen said a little contritely. "That was uncalled for."

"I just don't understand," Connie put in, acknowledging Karen's apology with a slight inclination of her head, "why I am being punished because Sylvia Hollandby was too thick to notice, that the fight going on under her nose was as thoroughly choreographed as river Dance. I'm told that any time anybody needs the keys Sylvia manages to lose on such a regular basis that it's farcical, that all they have to do is get two or three people to start a fight. What I did for Buki was purely instinctive, because I know what I can do, and because I wouldn't want a dose of the psychiatric wing as much as Buki wouldn't." In the resulting silence, Karen regarded her thoughtfully.

"I do understand, you know," She said after a while. "I was a nurse before I started doing this job, so I know what that instinctive drive to heal somebody actually means. But what you cannot do in a place like this is to bypass the rules, just because you don't agree with them."

"Jesus, that's rich," George said in disgust. "Do I need to say the names Daniella Blood and Michelle Dockley?"

"That's below the belt and you know it," Karen replied, hurt that George would bring Shell up at a time like this.

"Perhaps it is," George replied, "but punishing Connie for doing your doctor's job for him is just as outrageous. Tell me, would you have done the same if Yvonne had still been here and patched somebody up on the quiet?"

"And precisely why," Karen asked quietly, with the look of a fox about to raid the henhouse, "are you comparing your response to Connie, to me and Yvonne?"

"Who said I was?" George replied quickly, realising that with the mentioning of Yvonne, she had dropped herself right in it.

"We'll explore the answer to that at another time," Karen said with a slight laugh, knowing that she now had George about ready to spring her own trap.

After a moment's silence, Connie interrupted because she could see that whatever they were talking about was making George sincerely uncomfortable.

"I didn't ask George here, just to witness an ex-lovers' tiff." As Karen jerked her gaze from George to Connie, both women were forced to maintain serious expressions in the face of Karen's discomfort.

"Gossip certainly travels fast," Karen observed mildly.

"Of course it does," Connie said with a broad smile. "So, what punishment are you going to give me. I would ask for anything but the block."

"Before I work that out," Karen said, still looking at Connie. "Would you like to tell me where you got that bruise, that if I know anything about bruises, looks as though it was done this morning." George's eyes snapped to Connie's face, as she had seen the bruise but not really focussed on it with the other thing she was here to discuss.

"I can't prove it, so there's absolutely no point," Connie replied dully. "Besides she was right, I have been asking for it from that particular quarter since I got here."

"Sylvia," Both Karen and George said in unison, making Connie laugh.

"Well, at least I've managed to get you both to agree on something," She said with a wide smile. "But yes," She said, turning serious again, "It was Sylvia. The only person who might be able to give you any corroboration is Gina."

"Okay," Karen said bitterly. "I will deal with her, once and for all. As for your punishment, I think five days on cellular confinement should be enough."

"I suppose I can't really argue with that," Connie replied stoically. "But please don't punish Buki for doing what she did. It's not an easy thing for anyone to stop once they start doing it, and in a place like this, I should imagine it's virtually impossible."

"I know," Karen said, and as Connie watched the look of understanding pass between Karen and George, she wondered which one of them knew what self-harming really was.


	40. Chapter 40

A/N: This is for CattyKit, who has stayed with us since the old days of BGOL.

Part Forty

Nearly a month later, on Monday the sixteenth of October, George was sitting at her desk in her office in Knightsbridge, writing a final report and invoice for a civil case she had recently won in court. She was finding more and more these days that fighting civil cases and either losing or obtaining vast amounts of money for some of her richest clients, no longer gave her the adrenalin rush that it had when she'd begun her career, all those years ago. Yes, she was always pleased to win a case, and usually somewhat irritated when she lost, and definitely furious if either Jo or John had had anything to do with her losing a case. But somehow, it didn't seem to be quite enough for her anymore. She felt mostly unsatisfied with the majority of her work, as though it was lacking something, some indefinable quality that, if it were present, would make all the effort she put into her cases worthwhile. Was it the fight for true, sincere human justice that was making her feel like this? She wasn't sure. Connie's case had definitely got right under her skin, there was no doubt about that, and if she thought about it long enough, so had Barbara's case earlier in the year. Working with Jo, trying to do what was right for once, rather than what was merely profitable, certainly had been an enlightening experience for her. Both Jo and John had been fighting for justice for the common man for the entirety of their legal careers, where as she, well, she had been feathering her own nest, not to mention those of other people, clients far less scrupulous than even she could find it in herself to be.

When the phone rang, she came out of her introspection with immense relief. She needed a distraction from her thoughts, thoughts which really were beginning to get her down.

"It's Kay Scarpetta for you," Her secretary told her.

"Oh good, put her through," George replied.

"George, how's everything going?" Kay's cultured American voice came over the wire.

"Civil work isn't giving me the thrill that it used to," She found herself confessing. "How are you?"

"Up to my ears in more bodies than I care to count," Kay responded dryly.

"That's not an image I want to dwell on," George replied with a slight shudder. "I'm glad you've rung, because I was going to contact you if I hadn't heard from you by the end of this week."

"I'm sorry we haven't spoken sooner," Kay apologised. "But we really have been extremely busy. However, we have gotten together quite a lot of evidence for you, which will need to be sent by fax."

"Good. You have my home fax number, don't you."

"Yes, so I'll send it all there. Now, the syringe we found in the hospital side room, does only have Connie's fingerprints on it, meaning that the perpetrator must have used gloves. But he made one rather stupid mistake. I said initially that the syringe bore traces of Ammiodoron, which it does, but it also holds traces of potassium chloride, which is what was used to kill Angela Masters."

"And why," Filled in George. "Would Connie, if she really was the killer, have retrieved a syringe that she knew to only bear her fingerprints, to inject the killing substance."

"Precisely," Kay replied with a smile. "So you've got the prosecution over a barrel there. Now, you remember that Marino took some pictures of the footprint we found? Well, I've had them magnified and cleared up a little, and they do show a very distinct shoe pattern. What I suggest, is that you show the pictures to Connie, and see if she can find the footprint's owner."

"What about showing them to some of her colleagues?" George asked without thinking.

"Absolutely no way!" Came a loud, masculine voice that she remembered only too well.

"Hello to you too, Marino," George said with a broad smile.

"I'm serious," Marino insisted. "The only thing you'll achieve by flashing around pictures of the killer's shoeprint, is to let him know you're on his case. Do I make myself clear?"

"Very," George told him contritely. "But there are at least two of her colleagues who I would personally guarantee were safe bets."

"George, no one's a safe bet. Please remember that," Kay warned her sternly.

"There is absolutely no way that either Ric Griffin or Tom Campbell-Gore would have done this," George insisted.

"All right, you've got a point, I suppose," Kay conceded grudgingly.

"What makes you assume such a thing," Marino demanded.

"Because Jo Mills simply wouldn't be caught dead sleeping with a killer," George replied before she could stop herself.

"Oh, dear," Kay said into the resulting silence.

"I'm sorry," George said, giving herself a mental shake. "I do know just how ridiculous that sounds."

"George," Marino said carefully, though he knew just how this was going to come out. "Just because you might be sleeping with someone, doesn't mean you know everything about them, and if looks could kill," He added, trying to soften his words, purely for Kay's benefit. "I'd be flat on my back by now."

"Just be careful," Kay said, her voice a little strained. "That's all we're saying."

"The other thing we need to discuss," Kay said, neatly getting them back on topic. "Is Connie's handwriting."

"What about it?" George enquired.

"I've had a handwriting expert who works in one of the labs here, compare samples of Connie's signature, with the signature she supposedly left on the records for Angela Masters, on the day she died. On the drugs chart for that day, someone wrote Angela Masters up for a dose of Morphine, using Connie's signature. Now, we know that it wasn't Morphine she was given, but potassium chloride. Melanie Clayton, the expert I presented with this, says that it is a very good copy of Connie's signature, but in no way is it an exact copy."

"Brilliant," George exclaimed in delight. "Will she swear to this?"

"I've already got a signed statement from her, witnessed by her lawyer, which I'll also fax over to you."

"You have been busy, thank you."

"Oh, no problem," Kay replied, never entirely sure how to take gratitude for something that she simply considered to be part of her job. "The only other piece of advice I have for you, is to suggest that you get hold of the theatre tapes for Angela Masters' operation. A recording of all operations is always taken, certainly over here, in case there is any question of litigation, so I should imagine that the same thing happens over there."

"I'm not sure," George said thoughtfully. "But I could find out."

"George," Marino put in. "Try to find out everything you can about Will Curtis."

"Why?"

"Because I've got far too many ideas about him. I've been going through the notes I made when I interviewed those three doctors, and will Curtis just kept jumping out at me. Also, make Connie tell you everything about her relationship with him, because I'll bet my entire salary that she ain't told you everything."

"Okay, but do you have any actual grounds to go on?"

"I've got my nose," Marino replied without a flicker. "And a lifetime's worth of experience." Feeling that she could do with some of Marino's experience right now, George ended the call a while later, and contacted Ric, explaining that she needed copies of the theatre tapes from Angela Masters' Atrial Septal defect repair, and agreeing to go and pick them up from him when she'd finished work later that day.

Having gone home first to retrieve the photo of the suspect footprint from her fax machine, George drove over to St. Mary's hospital, around seven that evening, the time when Ric said he would probably be out of theatre. She walked along the seemingly endless corridor, taking the lift up to the fifth floor, where Darwin and Keller wards resided. It hadn't occurred to her that she would experience such a rush of barely controllable anger on seeing him, but when she came face to face with Tom, she realised that she should have spared a thought to this before coming here. Jo, as far as she knew, was still seeing Tom, still spending time with him, still sharing his bed. Tom would have made love to Jo, probably countless times by now, doing things to Jo's beautiful body that she, George had done only weeks before.

"George," He said, looking quite surprised to see her walking purposefully towards him. Stopping suddenly in her tracks, George raised her eyes to his face, all the hurt she had felt on initially being told of Jo's affair with him, rising straight back to the surface. "Are you here to see someone?" Tom asked her quietly, seeing the maelstrom of feelings in her eyes.

"Can you give me one reason why I should even acknowledge your existence?" George found herself demanding.

"For what it's worth," Tom said soberly. "I'm sorry. I really didn't intend to hurt you." He watched in slight alarm as her right hand twitched, clearly demonstrating her desire to slap his face.

"And just what did you suppose your sleeping with the woman who used to actually enjoy the things I did for her, just what did you think that would achieve? Because you know something, it really hurts to find yourself redundant, in fact it hurts like hell to discover that the woman you love has only really been playing at returning your feelings, when all along a straight, so-called normal relationship was what she wanted."

"Don't be stupid," Tom said quietly, actually feeling incredibly sorry for her, not to mention guilty. "She misses you, you know," he added after a moment's pause.

"Yes, well, I think I'll wait for her to tell me that herself. Now, where will I find Ric's office?" After gesturing down the corridor, Tom stood and thoughtfully watched her go. He could tell that George hadn't meant to say most of her diatribe, but that it had been born out of a sudden surge of feelings at being presented with him. He wasn't naïve, because he knew that Jo did love George and that her love for John was something that couldn't ever be shaken. He also knew that her affair with him wouldn't last all that long, because her love for both George and John, coupled with the way she had treated them, would eventually call her back to them. But Tom was happy to simply enjoy the time he did have with Jo. She was beautiful, funny, and in an odd way, incredibly peaceful after a fraught day in theatre, something he knew he desperately needed from time to time. One day, however, their affair would reach its close, and he would send her back to George and John, hopefully with a lighter heart.

As George knocked on Ric's office door, she tried to marshal her facial expression into something resembling normality. Calling to her to come in, Ric put the two theatre tapes into an envelope for her.

"You look like you could do with a large drink," He said on seeing her, the lines of her body radiating tension and stress.

"Yes, that would be somewhat welcome," George replied with a slightly mirthless laugh.

"Come on then," Ric said, grabbing the coat off the back of his chair, and holding the envelope out to her. "Angela Masters' operation took nearly three hours, and it's all on tape. I haven't had chance to listen to it, but I'm sure it'll provide an enlightening alternative to bedtime reading."

"There's something else I need you to do for me," George told him, closing the door to give them privacy, and holding out the envelope containing the photograph of the suspect shoeprint. "In here, is a clear shot of a shoeprint that was found in the side room where Angela Masters was killed. I need you to do some very discrete sleuthing for me, and try to find the owner of said print." Taking the envelope from her, he removed the photograph and briefly studied it.

"Okay," He said, replacing it in the envelope and locking it safely in his desk drawer.

"Ric, I must impress upon you that just because we may find out whose shoe left that print, that doesn't necessarily mean that we've found Angela Masters' killer."

"No, but it does mean that we've found a possible candidate. Don't worry," He said, seeing the look of slight hesitation in her face. "I won't do anything rash."

When they were seated in the bar across the road, with George sipping at a large Martini and Ric a large Scotch, George asked,

"What can you tell me about Will Curtis?" Putting his glass down on the table, Ric drew an ashtray towards them and dug in his coat pocket for his cigarettes, prompting George to get out her own.

"Would it be worth my asking why?" He said, taking a long drag and watching her closely.

"Just a line of enquiry that it has been suggested I explore," George told him evasively, making him smile.

"I'm forgetting that I'm trying to outwit a formidable barrister," Ric said with a slight laugh.

"I don't know about formidable," George told him honestly, "especially not today."

"I actually know very little about Will Curtis," Ric told her. "Diane, my Registrar, and Chrissie, the Sister on Darwin, probably know the most about him. But if you want to find out about him without him knowing, don't ask either Diane or Chrissie."

"Why?"

"Neither of them, but Diane in particular, have been very supportive of Connie since she was charged."

"They surely don't think that she did kill that patient?"

"No, I don't think so," Ric tried to reassure her. "But they've neither of them ever especially liked Connie, and this has presented something of an opportunity for stabbing her in the back."

"Okay, I'll see what I can dig up on him by other means," George replied, vowing to get Yvonne on the task as soon as possible.

"So," Ric said when he'd taken a swig of Scotch. "Why did you look so wound up when you arrived at my office."

"I ran into Tom, not something I was planning on doing at all today," She responded bitterly.

"What's he done?" Ric asked in mild amusement at her vehemence.

"For the past month or so, he's been sleeping with Jo."

"What, Jo Mills?"

"The very same," George told him dryly.

"But why?" Ric asked without thinking, making George laugh.

"You tell me," She said, lighting another cigarette. "Actually, I think I know why. It's because neither John nor I really understand her addiction to alcohol, whereas Tom blatantly does."

"Do you really think it's that simple?" Ric asked in slight amazement.

"I don't know," George replied miserably. "What I do know, is that when she and I began…" She stopped, suddenly a little embarrassed by the turn their conversation had taken.

"…Sleeping together," Ric filled in for her. "You can say it, George."

"Yes, when we began sleeping together, she really seemed to, enjoy it, for want of a better word. But it was never what you might call equal." At Ric's slightly non-plussed expression, George clarified. "She didn't really like the idea of giving what she definitely enjoyed receiving." Ric blinked, the mental image of what George had just described springing up in front of his eyes.

"You're very pretty when you blush," He informed George, taking her attention away from his slight discomfort and onto the slight colour in her cheeks.

"So I've been told," George replied with a laugh. "On more than one occasion."

"When I saw Jo, back at the end of June after her overdose," Ric continued seriously. "She seemed utterly overwhelmed by what she'd done."

"Oh, she was," George confirmed darkly. "And I certainly don't ever want to go through a night like that again."

"I was furious with Karen when she told me what the three of you had done," Ric told her sombrely. "Because the end of that story could have been entirely different."

"The thing is," George continued. "Jo initially liked what there was between us, because it was new, and in her view of the world it was different, forbidden. She first took up with John all those years ago because it was wrong after all."

"Why wrong?" Ric asked, becoming more intrigued the more they talked.

"Because Jo was nursing a terminally ill husband, and because John was still married to me. The reason Jo and I have locked horns so viciously in court all these years is because her relationship with John put the final nail in the coffin of my marriage to him."

"So what changed?" Ric asked, twirling his empty glass between finger and thumb.

"Jo altered her strategy at a time when I was at a particularly low ebb. Also around that time, we had started working together on Karen's case against James Fenner."

"James, Fenner," Ric said with utter loathing. "There's a man I would like to have met on a dark night."

"I think that either John or Yvonne might have beaten you to it."

"She used to own my favourite betting shop," Ric told her, amazed that he was laying a card like that on the table.

"I think that Yvonne's had her fingers in most types of pie over the years," George reflected dryly. As they rose to leave a little while later, they reached the door just as the heavens opened, stair rods of rain trying to drill holes in the pavement.

"Would you like a lift?" George asked, observing Ric's hopeless look of resignation towards the bus stop down the road.

"Yes please," He said thankfully, and they ran to George's car, George getting thoroughly drenched in the process, as she'd left her jacket in the car, knowing that the hospital was usually unbearably warm. Her cream silk blouse soon became very clingy and see-through, much to Ric's amusement. When they were at last in the car, George reached over to the backseat for her jacket, and did her best to cover herself up. But as they drove through the mid-evening traffic, the rain steadily drumming against the windscreen, Ric couldn't help but think that the hour or so that he had spent with George, really had been quite enchanting.


	41. Chapter 41

Part Forty-One

On the Wednesday morning when George drove over to Larkhall to see Connie for a legal visit, she reflected on the previous evening. With three hours of theatre tapes to wade through, she had eaten a light meal, poured herself a large Martini, and settled back with her feet up on the sofa, trying to understand the very epicentre of Connie's world. It was the goings on during this operation, and in particular the way Connie often curtly demanded the very best of her juniors, that she was here to talk to Connie about. She had talked to Yvonne, and Yvonne had agreed to see what she could dig up on Lord Curtis-Harding, and would let her know if and when she had anything to show. George also needed to discuss all of Kay's evidence with Connie, which she had gone through and neatly filed yesterday afternoon. She had tried to visit Connie every week since her almost adjudication, just to keep Connie going more than anything else. Connie seemed to look forward to her visits, saying that they really did keep her sane.

She cut her usual swathe her way through the London traffic with her usual impatience and ended up at Larkhall with a little time in hand to have a last minute run through of her ideas. Dressed in her best formal dark blue suit and white blouse, she submitted with good grace to her briefcase being searched by Ken on the gatehouse.

"I don't need to give you directions on finding your way round Larkhall Prison, Mrs Channing," were his parting words to George as Selena escorted her through the system of bolts and bars. In the meantime, Connie Beauchamp was eagerly awaiting George's arrival to find out how matters stood in the outside world, something, which she felt far too distanced from already. As she was escorted through to the interview room, Nikki rapidly signed a checklist that was placed before her and couldn't help noticing Buxton glaring venomously at George, knowing full well whom she was visiting.

Finally, George and Connie were brought into the utilitarian interview room and George couldn't help the slightly unprofessional rush of good feeling as she laid eyes on Connie before battening down outward concerns in favour of the business in hand.

"So, what developments have there been since last time, George?" Connie asked, a touch of anxiety in her tone of voice, hoping against hope that the confident smile that greeted her wasn't just a professional mask.

"Quite a lot. I had a frightfully interesting chat with Kay Scarpetta whose research has given me something to get my teeth into. She has done wonders in her forensic analysis of your supposed handwriting on Angela Masters' hospital records. For another, I have some magnified photographs of footprints that Marino was wondering if there's an off chance that you might recognise the footprint's owner. I've got them here for your attention."

The hopeful expression on Connie's face fell a mile as the glossy prints were passed to her. She shook her head as her best attempt to comb her rusty memory banks failed dismally to connect.

"Nice try, George but they mean nothing special to me. At the best of times, I normally see male colleagues wearing green scrubs in the operating theatre that cover everything. Anyway, I'm not in the habit of looking at their shoes."

"I expected as much, Connie, but I firmly believe in never passing up the unlikeliest of chances. Sometimes, they pay off. In any case, I decided to cover my bets and showed them to Ric to see if they jog his memory."

"Oh God, George. Was that really the wisest move? I know only too well how recklessly impulsive Ric is. That quality is pretty well written into his CV," Connie exclaimed, an expression of alarm spreading across her face.

"Take it easy, Connie." George answered in her most soothing tones. "I never make any precipitate moves like this without insurance. Ric got the message from me that he should on no account be the one man vigilante to clean up the case, just do some discreet sleuthing and that's all besides, I incorporated this precaution in having a drink with him where I was my normal charming self. You know how it's done," drawled George in her inimitable fashion.

Connie smiled broadly in answer, feeling a strong sense of kinship with this woman.

"We went for a drink at the bar across the road. I don't know about you but I do find that he's easy to talk to. He just has to be there and I found myself talking freely about myself. It's something I don't find easy to do with just anyone. On the other hand, I didn't get the feeling that he was discreetly trying to extract information with his smooth-talking ways either," George continued rapidly, a glint of amusement in her eyes as she laughed openly. In that split second pause before George drew breath before continuing her story, Connie could see the spark of interest in George's eyes, something George obviously couldn't recognise in herself. It amused Connie to make this slight discovery and relieved her to briefly focus her mind on events that weren't Larkhall related. "To do the man justice, he was very forthcoming about the interrelationships at St Mary's, past and present. That is what will make him a good sleuth and one of our irons in the fire."

Connie paused to assimilate all this information while George waited patiently.

"So how will your investigation shape for the future?" she questioned.

"I have a number of lines but I find it interesting is that Will Curtis comes over to me as something of a 'dark horse.' I think of it this way. If we say that Ric has this way of getting people to open up to him, he ought to know something about Will but he openly admitted that he doesn't. I'm not saying that that's automatically suspicious but it does rouse my curiosity.'

Connie fell silent, starting to ruminate over George's observations. She had clearly talked to Ric at great length and had done her best to orientate herself in the complex world that was St. Mary's hospital. As she had time to reflect on the matter, she knew that her autocratic ways could rub some people up the wrong way. As if she were the one woman operator of her own movie camera, she could sense that the man repressed the expressions of his feelings more than she had reckoned on. She could hear herself lecturing the man when he fell short of her high professional standards and giving way to the odd wounding shaft of sarcasm. She remembered that only the odd twitch on his face showed through the poker faced expression on his face. She should have realised that both his public school upbringing and his Army training had taught him to adopt that Spartan attitude which repressed the outward expression of emotion. While it might be admirable in functioning under enemy fire, it was a definite handicap in interpersonal relationships. Certainly, it provided food for thought.

She continued to be in the same ruminative mood when she was escorted back to the wing. Part of her was mentally walking through the endless corridors at St. Mary's, giving Donna Jackson a stern lecture about her timekeeping and casting an eagle eye upon Diane and Chrissie. It was only when she thought about it that she realised that all of them were feeling intense sympathy at her present plight. The thought didn't make her feel very good about herself. It was only when she recalled that, in reality that Ric would be her eyes that she cheered up.

"So Beauchamp, having a nice heart to heart talk with your brief. I'm sure it must be very intimate the length of time you've been there. All us girls get the token ten minutes?" snarled a strange ugly voice from behind her. It disconcerted her, as that voice had no right to be in her presence. In a split second, she was back to the present.

"Everyone has the right to legal representation, Buxton. You've been here long enough so you'll know," she replied coolly enough.

"A little bird tells me that your brief isn't above shagging prison governors," Natalie Buxton sneered, enraged by the neat way this stuck-up bitch turned the tables round on her.

"Your little bird can't whistle the same song for two minutes," Connie snapped back.

Dominic was used to seeing all kinds of petty arguments break out as a product of the terminal boredom of prison life. Some of it was off the cuff bitchiness that blew itself out in seconds and didn't warrant intervention. Natalie Buxton was different as she was calculated trouble. She spent her time scheming who next she could victimise and she and Connie Beauchamp were natural verbal antagonists. What worried him was that Connie wasn't in the position to use her fists to back up her verbal quick wittedness. Fortunately, he had been around long enough to learn to jump into the middle of an argument and to get it right. What surprised him was the way that, in slagging off Karen Betts, she was sticking her neck out. Whatever the answer, he jumped in straightaway.

"Oi, Buxton, just what the hell are you playing at?" he shouted out. Quick as lightning, she twisted things round like a striking snake.

"It's my time of the month if you don't mind," she answered with a slight vein of patronisation. "I was only pointing out that Beauchamp gets more than her fair share of prison visits, more than the other girls."

Dominic wasted no time in nipping this in the bud. He's seen how this troublemaker normally just stopped short of provoking punishment for her actions. This was the time to draw the line.

"I'll be the best judge of what's fair, Buxton. I've been around long enough to know that you're trying it on. This is a warning, which I'm reporting to the Governor. Step out of line just once and you're down the block."

The woman swallowed her anger, put on her best falsely sweet smile and walked away. At this moment, Nikki came out onto the landing and scented trouble immediately. With a sideways nod, she indicated that he join her in the PO room.

Dominic immediately related what he'd heard and, as usual, his boss gleaned everything that lay between the lines as well as what was said.

"We should ship that one out, Nikki. She's trouble, especially where Connie Beauchamp is concerned."

The dark-haired woman's brow furrowed at the scale of the problem. She'd talked the matter over with Karen on more than one occasion.

"You know and I know that there's nothing any of us can do to reform her. My problem is that whoever we ship her to will be stuck with the same problem as we've got. At least we're sharp enough to contain her and the other prisoners take their lead from the Julies, thank God. The other problem is that she's cunning and it's not just the gullible who can fall under her spell if things were different. I'll back you to the hilt to send her down the block if she steps an inch out of line. The other problem is that she stops just short before she can be nailed. I suggest you talk to Connie and get her to back off as best she can. The next PO's meeting, I'll ask that everyone keep their eyes on Buxton. "

Sure enough, Dominic called on Connie's cell and politely let himself in. He could see that her welcoming smile was a bit wan.

"Thanks for standing up for me," she said quietly, acutely aware that before this nightmare happened, she would have cut off her right operating hand rather than make such a statement. He hesitated before giving her well-meant advice, as he knew how proud she was.

"I saw everything that happened, Connie. I've had a word with the guv and we're watching Buxton like a hawk. The only thing I can advise you to do is try not to give into Natalie's taunts or retaliate by winding her up. I know it goes against the grain but it's the best advice I can give."

To his surprise, she smiled slightly in gratitude before replying. He had expected her to bite his head off.

"That's easier said than done, Dominic, knowing the way I hit back with words but I'll try and follow your advice. It means unlearning the habits of a lifetime, that's the trouble."

Dominic nodded and turned to go. This was the best that could be done.


	42. Chapter 42

Part **Forty-Two **

Karen had spent the evening after Connie's adjudication, smoking cigarettes and brooding over the practicalities of finally settling accounts with the one thorn in her flesh at Larkhall prison. She had mentally surveyed her realm, having finally achieved the power that she had wanted to run the prison her way in a clear headed fashion and this was her one remaining obstacle. Her train of thoughts had expanded outwards to encompass everything that had happened since she had first set foot in this place years ago in a different incarnation almost, as a fresh-faced Senior Officer. She had never forgotten the way that Sylvia had deliberately let the bouquet of flowers intended for Yvonne Atkins wilt under the efficient heat of the radiator and her unpleasant look on her face at Yvonne's distress. That had taught everything Karen needed to know about her underhanded ways.

On the fourth cigarette that first night, she had contemplated the enormous jump in time from that point onwards to the present and realized that she would need to collate every bit of material there was. What bothered her was that, while Sylvia's fellow conspirators had fallen by the wayside, the one fully functioning faculty she was armed with was that ability to play the system to her advantage. It was that which held her back for the next month in taking action on the matter plus more pressing matters. It wasn't the sort of thing that demanded immediate action as Sylvia's isolation within G Wing had diminished her from being a threat as in Helen's day to a minor nuisance. On the fifth cigarette the previous evening, she came to the conclusion that she needed to share her thoughts with Nikki.

As soon as she got to work, she passed word to her to come to her office. Her spirits lifted as she saw the alert, fresh-faced woman enter the room, dressed in her smart suit and take a seat. She came straight to the point.

"Nikki, I want to take your thoughts about a matter I've been turning over in my mind and that is about Sylvia."

"Do we have to, Karen?" the dark-haired woman replied grimacing her distaste. "It's a bright sunny morning, well not that much that you'd notice working here. Why spoil things?"

"I'm being perfectly serious as you'll find out. I did Connie Beauchamp's adjudication a month ago and she told me that Sylvia hit her across the face. I could see the mark as well."

"You're absolutely sure of this, Karen? I've got my eye on Natalie Buxton who is a definite danger to her. True to form, she's known immediately that she's being watched and so she's been putting on this Little Miss Innocent routine. Totally sickening."

Nikki's short pithy description made Karen smile at the same time that she respected her independence of judgment. What she didn't want of a Wing Governor was a career politician who would watch out for favourite ideas and expressions and reproduce them so as to curry favour. She liked someone to honestly disagree with her if that was what she felt and to provide an alternative possible explanation of events. It kept her on her toes and grounded to reality. After all, that was how she had behaved to Neil Grayling when he first came to Larkhall, before he had become the much wiser man who now stood guard for her at the Home Office.

"OK, Nikki. There's no harm in double-checking. Can you talk to Gina, find out for definite. We'll carry on this conversation assuming I'm right but if I'm proved wrong, then you come straight back to me. I'm not brushing you aside, believe me."

"You don't mind me asking you, Karen but I was wondering why have you waited a month before asking me to do this. Normally, you'd be on the case so quick I wouldn't have time to blink."

"The answer's simple, Nikki," grinned Karen back at the lurking smile on Nikki's lips. With that practiced ease of thought both woman had mentally pencilled Nikki's alternative possibility into the picture. "I mean to use this as the final nail in Sylvia's coffin. It's about time that she occupied herself fulltime with her retirement caravan."

"Sing Halleluiah," exclaimed Nikki as a broad smile spread across her face as feelings of deep satisfaction sank in.

"It's going to take much more than God's will to get shot of her but a hell of a lot of homework and hard graft on both our parts. You must know that she's far too skilled at working the system to defend herself. For all her moaning and grumbling about the job, it will be like extracting a limpet off a rock. She'll cling on with all her worth."

"OK, so what's the plan?"

"I want you to write down every instance you can think of where Sylvia has broken the rules to the detriment of either an inmate's safety or that of her fellow officers and I mean everything. You're the obvious candidate for this job."

Nikki grinned appreciatively at the prospect until a thought wiped the smile off her face and a look of doubt furrowed her brow.

"I'm only too willing to take this on but I'm not sure I'm the best person for this job as I've only been here for just over a year- though it feels longer than this. Sylvia has been here since eternity."

"Nikki, I'm not just talking of the year or so you've been Wing Governor but the three years you've been an inmate."

"Are we allowed to do this?" queried Nikki.

"Nikki, I can read you like a book. You're rightfully concerned to stick to the regulations but it's like this. At Connie's adjudication, George very kindly and amusingly reminded me at my expense, that the regulations are silent about George sitting in and representing her. I've learned my lesson so I've double-checked this with Neil Grayling. He says that in your specific situation, I can use your previous experience here. That's good enough for me.

"Well, if Neil says so……….." Nikki answered, a feeling of relief flowing through her. This realization that she could work from her experience as a whole unchained her imagination and ran through her like fire.

"There will be incidents which you've seen first hand and I haven't and vice versa. If we're going to make dismissal stick, we're talking of as much first hand observations as possible, something she can't squirm out of. You've also got Helen to double check on anything you're not sure of. That's why you're invaluable and between us, we'll be as well armed as we'll ever be," advised Karen.

"So what brought on this really excellent idea," Nikki said, leaning into the flame from Karen's lighter prior to the blond haired woman obviously intending to do the same.

"I was thinking of Helen and the way she recruited me to get rid of Dr Nicholson. It was her idea for us to get off our backsides and do something about him," Karen replied taking a leisurely drag of her own cigarette, "The trouble with Sylvia is that you end up adjusting to her and wearing her like a ball and chain. As soon as I heard the truth from Connie I thought, sod it. Why should we put up with her anymore?"

"So what was there about Sylvia's manner that made you think she was lying," Nikki asked Gina who was grinning all over her face as her boss got very rapidly to the point. She had secretly wondered why Nikki hadn't chased this one up till now.

"You could say it was because her lips were bloody moving but that shifty expression on her face and that whine in her bloody voice was a dead giveaway."

"I know what you mean, Gina, but I need specifics."

"Well, try this for size, Nikki. First she said she didn't know who did it and then she said that 'some con obviously gave her what she's been asking for.' You know, I know and Sylvia knows that Buxton fits the bill only she didn't name her. It was classic Sylvia waffle."

"One question I have to ask you, Gina. Can you remember who locked up Connie Beauchamp the previous night?"

"I remember very distinctly. It was me and there wasn't a mark on Connie's face then. That's another reason I knew Sylvia was lying."

Nikki's grin threatened to split her face in two. She couldn't resist doing a little dance step or two as another piece fell into place. That cheered up Gina even more as her boss's high spirits boded no good for Bodybag. She knew that there was more to this than met the eye but she trusted Nikki enough to keep schtum and not ask her questions.

Helen could tell immediately from Nikki's hyper manner that her partner was on a mission.

"Could we have a takeaway tonight as I've got a job that has to be done, one where I'll need your help. I need to compile rough notes for a dossier on Bodybag, one that will put the skids under Sylvia bloody Hollamby once and for all. Karen insisted that everything, literally everything relevant should go into it, including from when I was an inmate."

"But surely…."interjected Helen.

"I know what you're thinking but Karen has cleared it with Neil Grayling. This is for real."

Immediately, Helen got onto the pizza delivery service and cleared the table while Nikki made two cups of coffee and reached for pen and an A4 sized writing pad. They were keyed up with excitement, feeling that history was in the making.

"We might as well think big," grinned Helen at the thickness of the pad.

"OK, let's get the show on the road," Nikki said, in clear commanding tones. "First off is Carol Byatt's miscarriage. I was on the staircase from the twos to the ones when Bodybag gave me the brush off when I expressed my concerns that Carol Byatt hadn't come down to watch the dance show rehearsals. I was still there when I heard the cow forbidding her access to the doctor. The Julies told me that they heard her say she was bleeding……"

"And this was the very same version of events Carol told me when I visited her in hospital," added Helen." You might add that she put you in strips after I sent you down the block."

"Then there's the cockup over Tessa Spall," added Nikki, scribbling rapidly before continuing in a more doubtful tone of voice. "The problem is that a lot of what I know came from Barbara herself. This will be one for Karen as she interrogated Sylvia after the incident and gave her a written warning."

"Wait a minute, Nikki. Didn't you say that you tipped off Dominic that the supposed 'Barbara Hunt' was about to do over Shell Dockley of all people? It was you who brought the whole thing to light."

"So I did. I'd forgotten that. I suppose Karen's best placed to deal with the time when Shaz Wiley and Denny conned her into handing over the keys to let her out. What a fiasco," Nikki commented, the wing governor in her taking charge as she contemplated the logistics of changing over all the locks of all the cells in G Wing.

"What about the riot over Femi? I know that I didn't handle the situation as well as I should have done but the fact remains that when Sylvia was acting Principal Officer and Karen wasn't around, she was her typical heavy-handed self. Again, she was on at me to send in the riot mob when I was negotiating with you."

"I'll talk this one over with Karen but I have problems with using this. I'm not talking about the way that you and I were emotionally all over the place but the whole picture is too muddied. The trouble is that bad things didn't really happen as a consequence of her handiwork. I was relatively restrained and so were you really. I'm having problems that this is all old stuff," Nikki added, throwing down her pen in despair. "You and I can hear her bleating away, saying that she had a bad patch but she's mended her ways. It's all bollocks but we need more recent events to make this stick."

"OK then, what about this. Didn't you tell me how Denny Blood managed to steal Sylvia's keys off her and get up onto the rooftop with a razor and Karen had to talk her down. That was only two months into you starting back at Larkhall. She dropped you into it the same way she did for me."

"Now you're talking," breathed Nikki in delight. "I'd forgotten that as I was stuck on the ground helplessly watching Karen acting unbelievably recklessly the same way I saw you rescue Zandra."

"There's another instance. What about the unbelievably prejudiced and biased way she gave evidence in Barbara Hunt's trial and had her evidence cut short by John? I was in the gallery with Karen. That was only eight months ago."

Nikki sank back as the picture that was painted came into sharp focus. This was Sylvia all over. Commit some almighty cockup and let sufficient time go by till the next time and rely on those in authority whose memory retention wasn't as sharp and accumulating as it might be because their nature wasn't as vindictive as Sylvia's. The picture was complete.


	43. Chapter 43

Part Forty-Three

If there were qualities that made Natalie dangerous, it was that of sizing up other's weaknesses and of biding her time. She had taken immediate dislike to Connie Beauchamp because of her stuck-up airs and the way everyone was sucking up to her, screws and cons alike. All that attention going to someone else was bound to make her feel sick.

Her calculating mind had worked out that her enemy hadn't got the muscle to back up her smart Alec remarks but the only problem in taking her out was that she was being watched. Her big trouble was that she knew that Wade was onto her and was bound to have her hangers on backing her up. She hated the fact that Wade was once a con and knew all the tricks that prisoners got up to. The worst of it was that screws that should have known better looked up to her and positively licked her arse, men and women alike. Take for example the bleeding hart liberal, McAllister made such a painful attempt to understand her but who rejected her come on. After that, she got no sympathy off him. Rossi was no better and her beady eyes were watching her all the time. She didn't want to cross her, as she would have no hesitation in dropping her in it. The situation was so unfair. She'd been frozen out of any possible chance to look after the other girls and every screw resisted her good looks as if she were poison. It really got her down.

When she thought about it, there was just one small chink in the armour and that was Bodybag. For one, that look of disdain on her face was a dead giveaway. She obviously felt the same about Beauchamp as she did, especially as rumour had it, that Wade and her pals were watching Bodybag as well. The trouble was that she wasn't teacher's pet herself, not after all those lies about her being a nonce had stuck to her. She might explain it away by persuading that all she and her boyfriend did was in filling a market and that it was all down to the law of supply and demand. The trouble was that she didn't think the old bag would buy it. What might sway the matter was that if anything happened to Beauchamp, it wouldn't do Wade's reputation any good. There, she thought she might be on safer ground. There was also the advantage that the old bag was as thick as two short planks and slow off the mark. It was a wonder she hadn't been pensioned off years ago. An evil smile spread across her lips. It was worth a try.

"Isn't it just marvelous how this place has its favourites?" she remarked loudly one evening while Bodybag was conveniently close at a time when Connie was treating herself to a game of pool with Denny.

"Not from me, Buxton and don't you think it," Bodybag snapped, her eyes swivelling round in the direction of the other woman. She thought she was pretty smart in cutting in on this bit of troublemaking.

"Oh not from you, Mrs Hollamby," Natalie Buxton replied, carefully arranging her face into as near an approximation of Olivia Newton-John that she could manage. "All the girls realize that it's women like you who've been here a long time who makes Larkhall what it is. You get some women who swan in and get looked after and others don't."

"So what are you really getting at, Buxton?" questioned Bodybag, the heat magically taken out of her voice.

The combination of gross flattery and her veiled allusion to Wade did the trick, Natalie Buxton gleefully noted. She decided to play Bodybag and let her take the bait.

"Well, Beauchamp for a start though she's not the only one. It's time she was taken down off her high horse, one way or another."

"Well, let me tell you that I do things by the book. By the book, I promise you," Bodybag replied with no conviction in her voice, her eyes swiveling around. She made a mental note to write up the conversation, not noticing that there was another who had committed the conversation to memory.

The opportunity cropped up quicker than Natalie Buxton could have expected. Sometimes, it was a matter of taking the chances as they came or other times, a bit of discreet planning worked. It all happened on evening association when Dominic and Gina were right at the back of the association area round the pool table and she, Beauchamp and Bodybag were relatively close together and watching the ever present TV. Colin was talking to one of the inmates a little distance away. Around them was a crowd of milling prisoners and a crowd watching their favourite soap. Neither Wade nor Betts were present. Connie was tut-tutting silently to herself, which gave Natalie Buxton her opening.

"So, Beauchamp, think you're too high and mighty for what ordinary people watch," she sneered.

"Each to their own, Buxton," Connie said, her face turning white. She had been getting more and more angry with this evil woman and Dominic's words of advice were becoming more and more onerous. It was like a pressure cooker building up a head of steam.

"You like a bit of class, like that posh tart that gives you a seeing to, I'm sorry, your brief who represents you."

That sarcastic sneer was the final straw as Connie's temper finally flared. She had been long enough in prison for the ingrained habits of hospital life to be in abeyance. She was in an environment where more primitive rules to operate. Suddenly, she swung round and gave Natalie Buxton a ringing slap across the face.

"You're a nonce, Buxton. That's far worse than being a tart," Connie stormed back, following up the physical slap with a verbal one.

"Oh, so it's a fight you want, Beauchamp. So at last you've got a bit of bottle," she sneered, holding her slightly reddened cheek. Her anger flamed to boiling point at her public humiliation on both counts.

"Ready and waiting," Connie retorted, her breath going loudly in and out, her temper up. Suddenly, she was transformed into the much younger woman, way before she assumed the gravitas of the medical profession. When she learned to become a fighter, this was where she started.

"Fight, fight, fight," the chant started up from the younger prisoners who were bored and any instant entertainment would do. The Julies and Denny were up on the number 2s in their dorm and knew nothing of what was going on.

"What the frigging hell is going on?" exclaimed Denny as a volume of shouting suddenly kicked off.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Julie Johnson asked Julie Saunders.

"Come on man, we'd better get going," Denny called out and they shot out of their cell. To their intense anger and fear, they could see that it was Connie mixing it with that evil nutter, Buxton.

"Get the fuck out of the way," Denny yelled to the first of the crowd that was standing on the staircase, gawping as if this was yet another soap opera and that this was for real. With a sinking feeling, they saw Dominic and Gina trying to carry their voices over the shouting and being similarly hemmed in. Colin wasn't much better placed but he punched the alarm bell which rang out its warning all over the wing. All they could see was Bodybag, grinning away and enjoying every bit of what was going on while pretending to try to call order. In the meantime, they tried to push their way through the crush but were helpless spectators to the unfolding drama.

Suddenly Natalie launched forward with a lightning fast punch to the face but fortunately some of Connie's dormant instincts kicked in. Connie dodged sideways so that the punch went wild and Connie smacked her hard across the face with all her pent up frustration and loathing of the woman. For once, nothing else mattered in her life and she gained a moment of savage satisfaction to see that her hated enemy's nose was bleeding and that her neatly manicured hair was all awry.

This time, Natalie Buxton charged forward with unexpected speed and launched a karate kick at Connie, which connected to the middle of her chest and momentarily dazed her. The next second, an overarm wallop landed on her face smack in her eye and the follow up left blood trickling down her face.

As she collected her wits and tried to focus her eyesight, she saw her hated enemy laughing at her and clearly playing to the gallery. In a blind fury, she charge forward and grappled with her enemy and gave her a few clouts round her face. Suddenly she gasped with agony and all her strength left her body. She reeled away and slowly collapsed on the ground, feeling frighteningly helpless facing the last person in the world that would give her mercy. Sounds of shouting echoed backwards and forwards in her senses. She was not to know that two of their voices were Nikki's and Karen's.

The two women were in Karen's office when the uproar suddenly started. Both of them made a rush for the door, Nikki stealing the lead in not having to get round the desk. They didn't need the alarm to sound as it did as their instincts were kicking into overdrive. To their intense frustration, they had to fiddle with keys and locks, which were suddenly putting up a fight with their desperate wills.

As Connie lay on the ground, Natalie Buxton, enraged by Connie's earlier punches, gave

Connie a final vicious kick in the stomach just as Gina and Nikki finally fought their way through the crowd. While Nikki grabbed Natalie Buxton's right arm and twisted it behind her back in a half-nelson hold, Gina reached for her handcuffs and clicked them round her wrists as she squirmed and swore at them. Neither of them paid her any attention as all they noticed was Connie lying prone on the floor, moaning in agony that she couldn't repress and a trickle of blood spreading along the floor. Their hearts sank, as they feared for the future.


	44. Chapter 44

Part Forty Four

As Karen walked through the gate onto the wing and took in the scene, she couldn't quite believe what she was seeing. There was Natalie Buxton, standing over the prone body of Connie Beauchamp, looking sincerely proud of what she had achieved. Some of the other women had half formed a ring round what had been the two fighting women, but now they were moving back, shocked at the sight of Connie, lying on the floor, and quite obviously in the first stage of losing her baby. Taking a brief few seconds to arrange her thoughts, Karen sprang into action.

"Sylvia, Collin, get this lot banged up," She began, gesturing at the two officers in turn. "Nikki, Gina, get Buxton down the block, and take a note of every injury she has. I don't want her inflicting more on herself while she's down there. Dominic, phone Dr. Waugh and get him down here now." After having given her orders to the people concerned, Karen pushed through the gathering crowd and made her way towards Connie. "Connie, can you hear me?" She asked, kneeling down beside her.

"The baby," Connie said between gasps.

"I know," Karen told her. "We'll get you to the hospital wing and then see what we can do."

"Don't give me fucking platitudes," Connie told her scornfully, her anger briefly blocking out the pain from her bruised and fiercely cramping abdomen. "There's no saving it and you know it. It's probably better for all concerned. If I lose consciousness before he arrives, tell Dr. Waugh that he needs to find some O-Neg and fast." It seemed that she hadn't spoken too soon, for the colour began to drain rapidly from her face, and she drifted swiftly away, the last thing she was aware of being the thought that she owed Buxton for this, good and proper.

When Connie slowly emerged into wakefulness, she was lying on a bed in the hospital wing, with a drip in each arm. Glancing upwards, she could see that blood was gradually being pumped into her left arm and fluid into her right.

"That better be O-negative you're giving me," She said, groggily gesturing at the bag of blood suspended above her.

"Yes, it is," Dr. Waugh confirmed, as he wheeled an ultrasound machine into the room.

"There's hardly any point in using that," Connie said, dismissively waving at the monitor. "It's not as though it's still going to be alive."

"I need to see what position it's in, you know that," Thomas told her gently. "It was lying transverse when I scanned you two weeks ago, but if it's moved since then, it'll make it far easier for it to be expelled." As she observed the conversation from where she stood at the other side of the bed, Connie's wrist in her hand to keep an eye on her pulse, Karen found herself almost at a loss as to what to say to this woman. Connie was dealing with her miscarriage clinically, allowing no emotion to filter through into her tone, as though the body lying on the bed was not her own. Seeming to finally take notice of Karen's presence at her right side, Connie said,

"I hope you give Buxton a month in segregation for this."

"I was actually thinking of shipping her out," Karen told her quietly, the thought only just having occurred to her.

"And inflict her on some other poor bastards, you must be joking," Connie replied bitterly, sucking in a breath through her clenched teeth at the fiery pain from her contracting muscles. "Jesus!" She exclaimed, her womb feeling as though it was twisting itself up in knots.

"Do you want something for the pain?" Thomas asked her as he plugged in the ultrasound machine.

"No," Connie told him curtly. "You could say this was my punishment for not telling Ric about the baby."

"He would have supported you, you know," Karen told her quietly.

"He's got nine already," Said Connie in disgust. "What on earth makes you think he would have wanted any more? Besides, that argument is futile now. What he doesn't know can't hurt him. I didn't even know if I was going to keep it, so what would have been the point in putting him through all that if I decided not to keep it?"

"He does have a right to know, Connie," Karen persisted, reaching for the blood pressure cuff to wrap around Connie's upper arm.

"And you're going to be the one to tell him, are you?" Connie demanded, continuing in her argument with Karen because it was helping to distract her from the pain and the bleeding.

"If I can achieve what I want to achieve, then he'll have to know."

When Thomas moved the transducer over Connie's abdomen, he said,

"Ah, you're bleeding so much because I'm guessing that when you were kicked, judging by the bruising you've got, your placenta was detached."

"How's the baby lying?" Connie asked, trying to ignore the further agony the pressing on her abdomen was causing.

"Head down, so all we have to do is wait," Thomas concluded.

"How far along are you?" Karen asked, writing down Connie's blood pressure.

"Fourteen, fifteen weeks, something like that," Connie replied, gripping the side of the bed as a new wave of pain and dizziness swept over her. Carefully prising Connie's fingers away from the mattress, Karen allowed Connie to grip her hand, not showing the merest sign of a wince as Connie squeezed it hard.

"So," Connie asked when the pain had gone back to a manageable level, "What's this grand plan of yours?"

"I'm going to ask John to somehow get you out of here," Karen told her, taking in the brief expression of surprise on Connie's face.

"I don't think even the Deed himself can manage that one," Connie said with a grimace instead of a smile. "Though I suppose if anyone can it would have to be him."

"You shouldn't have been here in the first place," Thomas said in total disgust as he wheeled the ultrasound machine out of the way. At Connie's questioning look, Karen filled her in.

"Thomas doesn't believe in putting pregnant women in prison."

"Even I know that you can't really have suspected killers walking the streets," Connie replied thoughtfully.

"You didn't kill that patient," Thomas said succinctly. "Someone set you up, probably someone who's after your job."

"Well now, that is nice," Connie said a little dreamily, the blood loss having truly exhausted her. "Someone in here who actually believes in me."

"Shouldn't we try to keep her awake?" Karen asked as Connie drifted off into a restless doze.

"No, let her sleep for now," Thomas said, "She'll need her strength later on."

"I might as well use this opportunity to talk to John," Karen replied, clearly not looking forward to this conversation. "Can I use your office?"

John and George were contemplating going to bed when the phone rang near midnight. They'd had dinner together, and as it was a Friday night they'd languished on the sofa with a bottle of wine, verbally teasing each other knowing that when they eventually went to bed, their lovemaking would be all the more intense because of it.

"You really are incredibly beautiful," John told her silkily, pulling her to sit on his lap when she'd refilled his glass.

"And you're drunk," She told him fondly, engaging in a deep and lingering kiss with her favourite man in the whole world.

"Only moderately so," He replied mildly. "Certainly not too drunk to…" He edged his hand up her skirt, gently squeezing her thigh.

"Oh, good," She softly crooned, sucking hungrily on the pulse point in his neck, knowing just how much he loved it. But when the phone rang, she groaned in clear irritation.

"Just ignore it," John tried to persuade her, his other hand creeping round to massage her right breast.

"I can't," She said, squirming out of his arms. "It must be important if whoever it is needs to ring after midnight. There's nothing stopping us from continuing when I've dealt with this."

"I wish you were dealing with this instead," John said, gesturing at the bulge in his trousers, making George laugh. But the smile was immediately wiped off her face when she heard Karen's voice.

"George, its Karen, is John with you?"

"Yes, he is, why, what's happened?"

"I need him to think of a way of getting Connie out of prison until her trial," Karen said, her voice sounding thoroughly despondent.

"I ask again," George said firmly. "What's happened?"

"Connie got into a fairly bad fight with Natalie Buxton."

"I'm listening," George replied, feeling herself sober up in an instant.

"Natalie kicked her, and it caused Connie to miscarry." Taking note of the sudden rush of tears to her eyes, George took in a deep breath to try and quell them.

"And how is Connie?"

"Currently, she is receiving a blood transfusion and is waiting for her fifteen week old foetus to be expelled. George, she can't stay here, it simply isn't safe."

"Karen, it isn't me you need to explain this to, it's Ric who'll want the answers. I'll talk to John, and see what we can do, but don't hold out much hope. I've often asked him to perform miracles, and Jo does it on a daily basis, but that doesn't mean he always can. Don't contact Ric until we know what, if anything we can do."

John watched George as she put the phone down.

"Something terrible has happened, hasn't it," He said, seeing the look of extreme sadness in her face.

"A fight with one of the worst people in that place, has caused Connie to lose her baby," George told him, before going into the kitchen to brew them some strong black coffee. When John appeared in the doorway, she continued. "Karen wants you to somehow get Connie out of there. She has finally admitted that Larkhall isn't anywhere near as safe as she would like everyone to believe it is."

"George, this isn't Karen's fault," John told her quietly.

"Yes, it is," George replied vehemently, the tears rising to her eyes as she slammed two mugs down on the kitchen unit. "It's her fucking prison!"

"And it's Nikki's wing," John tried to convince her. "You might just as well say it was Nikki's fault that this happened. It is nobody's fault but the person who did this to her. I'll give Monty a call. If anyone's going to get Connie out of Larkhall, it can't be me. Not only am I one of her trial judges, but we have history, you know that."

"How could I forget?" George drawled, realising that he was right. Someone with no partiality whatsoever had to do this, not John. But would Monty agree to do this, she simply didn't know.

As the kettle boiled, John phoned Monty and filled him in.

"John, do you have any idea what time it is?" Monty asked, being on the point of going to bed.

"Monty, we've got to sort this out."

"All right. I'm staying at the digs tonight, so if you and George can come over, we'll see what we can do."

"Let me sober up a bit and we'll be there," John promised, knowing that whatever it took, they needed to do all they could for Connie. "You'll have to drive," He told George as she handed him a mug of steaming hot coffee. "I've definitely had more wine than you have."

"So what's new," George said dismissively. "Did Monty sound even vaguely amenable?"

"I think he agreed to talk about it just to shut me up," John concluded with a shrug. "But I'm sure that between us we can talk him round."

When they arrived at the judges' digs, Monty let them both in, giving John the once over, taking in the very slight squint that betrayed what the black coffee hadn't quite been able to achieve.

"I think some more coffee might be in order, don't you," Monty said, gesturing them to take a seat in the lounge of his flat.

"Where's Vera?" John asked, not wanting her interference on top of everything else.

"You can relax, John, she's away," Monty said with a slight smile. "Now, George, why don't you tell me exactly what's happened."

"It seems that Connie Beauchamp got into a fight with another inmate. How and why, I don't yet know, but it happened near the end of association this evening. Something not many people knew, was that Connie was about fourteen or fifteen weeks pregnant, which obviously occurred not long before she was remanded in custody. As a result of the fight, of which Connie was definitely the loser, she is currently in the process of losing her baby. Governor Betts, feels that it is no longer safe enough for Connie to remain in prison. I happen to know that Connie was threatened by two inmates, who intended to carry out a particularly brutal internal drugs search on her, literally hours after she was confined to Larkhall. You might say that it is Connie's intelligence and verbal dexterity that threatens Connie's continued safety in such an environment."

"You make an interesting case, George," Monty said thoughtfully, taking a sip of his coffee. "So, answer me a few questions about her and we'll see."

"I won't break client confidentiality, Monty, you should know that."

"And I'm not asking you to, especially with one of her trial judges present. Also, I think we both know that this isn't the only reason for your asking for my help with this, don't we."

"So that I don't reveal something to the detriment of John's career, Monty, please spell out to what you are referring."

"He's referring to you walking in on me in post-coital afterglow with Connie," John filled in succinctly.

"I didn't know you knew about that," George said, ignoring John and watching Monty's eyes.

"You are, somewhat louder than usual when you're particularly angry," Monty told her quietly, his gaze softening as he remembered just how hurt and bewildered she had really sounded on that day in February.

"So," George said after a few moments' thought. "What do you want to know?"

"Does she have any previous criminal record?" At the sight of George's surreptitious gaze around the room, clearly looking for the presence of a bible, Monty said, "You aren't in court, George. Just tell me what I need to know."

"Then no, she has no previous record that would need to be considered if you were to release her from prison."

"And as she is a surgeon, at the top of her field," Monty continued, "She is clearly in a profession that needs her, and that could only benefit if she were allowed to return to it for the time being."

"Yes, she was taken from her job at a busy NHS hospital, and if the hospital allow her to return to her position, this would only benefit the wider community."

"Now give me a satisfactory reason as to why I should even consider revoking her custodial remand and allow her bail instead?"

"It's called common, human decency, Monty," George told him vehemently. "The simple answer is, if you want Connie Beauchamp to remain alive and well until her trial, she cannot stay within the confines of any of Her Majesty's prisons. She will have lost her baby by tomorrow morning. Do you really think that a prison is the best place to recover from that? She can't even begin to deal with her feelings regarding such an event in that place, never mind help the father come to terms with it." George's speech was so impassioned, that she failed to notice the tears that had appeared in her eyes, but both John and Monty did. When she realised that she was in danger of revealing too many of her swirling emotions, George stood up from her chair and rapidly walked outside, digging in her handbag for her cigarettes as she did.

"This client, and this case mean a lot to her, don't they, John," Monty said into the resulting silence.

"Yes," John agreed with him. "I have a feeling that she is getting a little too involved with this case, but I can no more stop her now, than I can prevent time from relentlessly moving from day to day. George won't stop until she has done everything she possibly can for Connie, whether anyone else agrees with it or not."


	45. Chapter 45

A/N: Some may find this particularly difficult to read.

Part Forty Five

It was around half past three on the Saturday morning when Connie's baby finally made its appearance. When Karen had gone to phone John, Connie had drifted, sometimes dozing, sometimes slightly rambling to either Karen or Thomas, for nearly two hours. But around half past two, the pain had increased in its intensity, her womb clearly getting ready to eject the baby that had been growing there since its conception. Connie found herself wondering if this was what real childbirth felt like, the kind of childbirth that didn't take place in a haze of guilt and regret.

"Why does it always have to be like this?" She demanded of Karen during a particularly excruciating contraction.

"I'm listening," Karen promised her, not quite sure where this was going.

"Why is it," Connie continued, almost demanding the answers of some far higher being than the two that stood at her bedside, "That I can't even contemplate motherhood without fucking everything up in the process? It's no doubt some bastard's divine punishment for my less than innocent beginnings in that department."

"Connie, seeking answers to something that nobody can ever answer, isn't going to help you now. You need to allow this to happen, rather than fight it with every shred of the strength you're going to need to recover from this."

"Don't you get it," Connie threw back at her. "I don't deserve to recover from this, not ever."

When the nearly four inch long foetus eventually slid out onto Thomas Waugh's hands, Connie astonished both him and Karen by what she said.

"I want to see it."

"No, you don't," Karen gently tried to persuade her.

"I have to see it," Connie insisted. "To remind me why I should never try this again."

"She's a girl," Thomas told her, regretfully holding it out to her. Any colour that had been in Connie's face drained away as she saw what would have been her child had it gone to term. Would she have allowed it to go that far, she simply didn't know. One really couldn't answer a question like that whilst trapped in a place like Larkhall, she told herself, but would Ric have wanted her to keep it? When the tears finally began streaming down Connie's face, Thomas removed the baby, still attached to cord and placenta, taking them away to be disposed of, leaving Karen to gently hold Connie's hand in hers, not intruding on Connie's grief but letting her know that she wasn't alone.

"What's going to happen to me now?" Connie eventually asked.

"I had a call from George at about half past one," Karen told her, as she helped Connie to make herself more comfortable. "And she said that she and John managed to persuade a judge to serve what she called a writ of Habeas corpus, letting you out of here on bail until your trial. She's going to come here with the paperwork around nine tomorrow morning, and barring any unforeseen circumstances with you and your health, Ric should be able to come and take you home at about eleven."

"I'm not sure he'll want to have anything to do with me, once he finds out about this," She gestured to her lower abdomen.

"Yes, he will," Karen tried to reassure her.

"What makes you so sure?" Connie asked.

"I've known Ric Griffin a hell of a lot longer than you have, Connie," Karen told her. "And I can say for certain that whilst he may at some point have quite a few questions for you, he will want to do anything he can for you. He's probably the kindest man I've ever known, though it sometimes comes out in subtle ways so that you won't notice it, but he will come and get you, he will take you home, and he will look after you."

After grabbing about three hours sleep on the couch in her office, Karen decided it was time to phone Ric. It was nearing eight o'clock, and she simply couldn't put it off any longer.

"Ric, its Karen," She said when he answered.

"You sound as though you've been up all night," He said on a yawn. "Are you all right?"

"Did I wake you?" Karen asked, avoiding trying to answer his perfectly innocuous question.

"No, I'm just making some coffee. What's happened?" He asked, realising that she would only have phoned him at this time on a Saturday morning if the matter was terribly serious.

"Can you sit down for a minute, because I've got something to tell you."

"Okay," he said, for the moment going along with her. "I'm sitting down. Now, tell me what's happened to Connie?"

"Were you aware that she was pregnant?" Karen's question silenced him for a moment or two, because he really hadn't had any idea that she was pregnant.

"No, I didn't know," He said eventually. "But you said was, she was pregnant."

"Connie got into a fight yesterday, with one of the nastier of my inmates, and it caused her to miscarry." She heard Ric reach for his cigarettes and light one, taking in a very long drag.

"Is she all right?" He eventually asked.

"Physically, she will be, but as for emotionally, I don't know. You know her better than I do."

"Not that way I don't, not really," He admitted sadly. "She's never allowed me to get that close."

"Well, maybe she'll have to now. But what you need to know, is that she is being allowed out of prison today, and is being bailed until her trial."

"How on earth did that happen?" Ric asked in utter astonishment.

"You might thank both George and John, and their skill of persuading another judge into doing the paperwork in the early hours of this morning for that. The simple fact is, Connie is no longer safe in custody, if she ever was," Karen finished regretfully.

"You mustn't blame yourself for this," Ric tried to persuade her.

"It's my bloody prison, Ric," Karen threw back, the stress of the last twelve hours finally catching up with her. "Believe me, there will be a full investigation into just how this was allowed to happen."

"When can I come and collect her?"

"I'd say around eleven," Karen told him, trying to get her feelings of guilt and helplessness under control. "All the paperwork needs to be completed, and we need to make sure she's physically well enough to go home."

"That'll give me time to make sure that her house is ready for her," Ric concluded.

When George arrived at just after nine, the man in charge of the gate lodge directed her round to the car park by the hospital wing, saying that Karen was there waiting for her, and lifting the barrier for her to drive through. When George got out of her car, she saw Karen standing by the outside door to the hospital wing smoking a cigarette.

"You look terrible," George said without a moment's thought.

"I've been up most of the night, helping Thomas with Connie. Then I caught a couple of hours on the couch in my office," Karen explained, ditching her cigarette, preparing to go back in. Taking her hand, George turned Karen to face her and put her arms round her, giving her the hug she knew Karen needed.

"You'll make me cry," Karen said a little unsteadily, knowing just how she looked, wearing the clothes she'd slept in and with her hair virtually untameable.

"Are you all right?" George asked, loathing the inanity of the question but not knowing what else she could possibly say.

"Not really," Karen admitted quietly. Then, after a few minutes of resting her cheek against George's, she said, "I thought you'd blame me for this."

"I did, initially," George told her honestly. "But I've had a few hours' sleep to calm down and think a lot more rationally. But what I wouldn't do to Natalie Buxton isn't worth mentioning."

"Which is why she's staying down the block for the foreseeable future," Karen said darkly. "I was all ready to have her ghosted out of here last night, but I was informed that to inflict her on some other poor bastards was simply unfair, Connie's words not mine."

"How is Connie?" George asked, finally getting to the heart of the matter.

"She's exhausted, physically as well as mentally, very bruised, very sore, and utterly devastated. She might have told everyone who knew that she didn't know whether she was going to keep it, but I think she was slowly coming round to the idea."

"What, erm, what was it?" George asked hesitantly, almost not wanting to know.

"A girl," Karen told her regretfully. "So she and Ric would have had a daughter."

"Does he know?"

"Yeah, I told him just over an hour ago. He's coming in at about eleven, once we've got all the paperwork sorted and her things packed."

"Speaking of which," George said, withdrawing an envelope from her handbag and giving it to Karen. "Mr. Justice Everard's writ of Habeas Corpus. A little unorthodox, but there you are."

"Good," Karen replied, taking the envelope from George and briefly scanning its contents. "Would you like to see Connie while you're here?"

"Yes, if you think she'd want to see me," George said, feeling suddenly nervous at seeing this woman whom she knew meant far more to her than was sensible at this time.

"I'm sure she would," Karen told her with a slight smile.

When George quietly let herself into Connie's room, she saw that the other woman was in a restless sleep. Sitting down on the hard plastic chair to the right of Connie's bed, George gently took her hand. Even in sleep Connie looked as though she was in pain, her bruised face only the beginning of what Natalie Buxton had done to her.

"George," Connie said in a slurred, very sleepy voice.

"How did you know it was me?" George asked, as Connie opened blurry eyes.

"Your perfume," Connie said succinctly, asking, "What?" When she saw the look of slight astonishment on George's face.

"I was just remembering that day you came to see me when I was in hospital," She said, referring to that March afternoon earlier in the year when she and Connie had verbally come to blows.

"Well, I'm not about to castigate you for sleeping with my lover," Connie replied dryly.

"How do you feel?" George asked after a moment's pause.

"As though I've been run over by a train," Connie told her gloomily.

"We managed to persuade Monty Everard to serve a writ of Habeas Corpus, which means that you can go home this morning," George told her.

"Thank you," Connie replied simply. "Does, erm, does Ric know?" She asked a little hesitantly.

"Yes. He's apparently coming to get you in about an hour and a half."

"George, Ric isn't ever going to forgive me for this," Connie said with such certainly that it brought tears to George's eyes.

"Yes, he will," George tried to tell her, fervently hoping that he really would. "You've done nothing wrong," She insisted. "And whilst it might take him a little time to get his head round it, he will understand why you didn't tell him."

"I'm not sure that I understand it myself," Connie told her miserably. "I just thought it was for the best."

A little while later when Gina pushed the door open, she was carrying a suitcase that was clearly bulging with Connie's belongings.

"Thanks, Gina," Connie told her gratefully. "Now at least I can find something to wear, and please could you do me a favour?"

"As long as it's legal," Gina said with a smile.

"Could you give my cigarettes to the Julies and Denny?" She asked, retrieving three packets of Silk Cut and handing them to Gina. "I wouldn't have got through the last couple of months without those three."

"Yeah, I'll do that," Gina replied, taking the cigarettes from Connie. "Do you want me to help you get dressed, or can you manage?"

"I'll be all right, thank you," Connie assured her, though not really knowing how true this was. When Gina had gone, Connie slowly sat up and put her feet over the side of the bed, wincing at the stiffness in her muscles.

"Do you want me to go?" George asked, knowing that if she were in Connie's position, she wouldn't want someone watching her struggle to do the simplest of things.

"Actually, if you don't mind, I might need some help after all," Connie admitted sheepishly. "Because I think my blood pressure's just gone through the floor."

"That's hardly surprising," George told her, reaching to find something that looked vaguely comfortable for Connie to wear from her suitcase.

"If I had the energy and if I could get my hands on her, Natalie Buxton would be getting a taste of her own medicine," Connie said vehemently.

"And if I know anything of Denny," George replied, considerately looking away as Connie removed the hospital gown. "She probably will anyway."

"Denny and the two Julies made this place almost bearable," Connie told her, crying out at the pain in her shoulders as she tried to do up her bra. Reaching to do it up for her, George said,

"I've no doubt they told you most of the salient details of my relationship with Karen."

"Yes, something like that," Connie said as George held out a blouse for her to put on. "It's amazing how much they actually know about the staff who work here." When she was dressed, George gently brushed her hair for her.

"Connie," She said carefully, after replacing the brush in the case and fastening the clasps. "Just because you will be out on bail, doesn't necessarily mean that you will automatically be allowed back to work."

"Yes, I know," Connie replied disgustedly. "Let it be that hospital politics rise above everything else," She said drolly. "I'll talk to them on Monday, and see what the board's position is with regard to me."

"Connie, I can't impress on you too strongly that you need to allow yourself to recover from this, before you even think of going back to work. Are you listening to me?"

"And the best antidepressant I can think of would be to get back to my patients," Connie told her resolutely.

"I know," George said a little dejectedly. "Because that was precisely what I did, and it allowed me to push things to the back of the queue, so that they still haven't been dealt with to this day, years after the event. All I'm asking is, try not to make the same mistakes as I did. Ric is like John, in that he will allow you to deal with this in your own way, purely because he doesn't know how to help you to deal with it. Any time you need me to listen, I will listen," George ended quietly.

"Thank you," Connie said in a slightly hoarse voice, wanting nothing more than to bury her head in George's shoulder and cry her eyes out, but knowing that she needed to remain at least outwardly strong, in order to deal with Ric and his inevitable questions.


	46. Chapter 46

Part forty Six

When Ric arrived at the prison, he was directed around to the tarmac outside the hospital wing, where he found George walking out to her car, with Karen standing at the door leading inside the prison. He didn't really know what to think on seeing George, part hurt, part anger, he wasn't sure. She had almost certainly been aware of Connie's pregnancy long before this day, yet she hadn't told him. She had sat in the bar with him, only last Monday, drinking with him, and yet she hadn't seen it fit to tell him that he was potentially going to be a father to Connie's child. As he pulled up next to George's car, he could see that George looked a little wary of speaking to him.

"Is that Connie's car?" George asked as Ric emerged from the driver's door and locked it.

"It looks like something she'd own, doesn't it," He found himself agreeing with her, thrown utterly off guard by her friendly demeanour.

"Ric, I'm sorry," She told him quietly.

"You know, I'm not quite sure," He said, moving to stand next to her, "whether I want to shout at you till the cows come home, wring your neck for keeping this from me, or ignore your existence entirely."

"And would any of those options make you feel any better?" George wanted to know, almost wishing he would put the first one into practice.

"No, probably not," He replied dully.

"Believe me, if I had been in a position to tell you, I would have done. But as Connie's lawyer it certainly wouldn't have been my place. Anything I have so far persuaded Connie to tell me about herself, has only come to the fore because she is gradually beginning to trust me. It would have been utterly fatal to my professional relationship with Connie, not to mention my friendship with her, if I had in any way broken that trust."

"And now I think you've just about broken down all the arguments I was going to throw at you," Ric admitted quietly. "But perhaps that's no bad thing." After a few moments' silence, he asked, "How is Connie?"

"She's very sore and very miserable," George told him sorrowfully. "And…" She stopped, not entirely sure that what she was about to say should be said at all.

"What?" Ric encouraged her.

"She thinks that you won't ever forgive her for this, her words, not mine."

"If the truth be known," Ric said solemnly. "I don't know how to feel about it yet. There are questions I want answers to, but not today and probably not tomorrow. All I can do for her right now is take her home and look after her."

As Ric waited on a faded plastic chair for Connie to emerge from her room with Karen, he wondered how she would look both from the fight that had started all this and from losing his baby. He could bet with an absolute certainty that she would desperately try to keep all her emotions hidden, to keep all their interactions on a surface level. Well, he might let her get away with that today, while she settled in and began to heal, but not forever, maybe not even tomorrow. She needed to talk about this, they needed to talk about this in order to be able to move on. But when Connie finally appeared, with Karen following and carrying her bags, nothing could have prepared him for the shock he would receive on first catching sight of her. Her left eye was almost closed by the bruise that adorned it, and her face looked incredibly sore. She was moving very stiffly, as though she either had a couple of cracked ribs, or her joints had simply been beaten beyond redemption. As he stood and moved towards her, Connie's gaze very gradually rose to meet his.

"Hi," She said, extremely tentatively. "It's nice to see you."

"I've come to take you home," He told her softly, gently pulling her arm through his. They remained silent as they moved outside, but when Connie said,

"My car," as though she was greeting a long lost friend, Ric looked over at her to see that she was briefly smiling.

"I've been taking care of it for you," He told her, unlocking the doors so that Connie could slide gratefully into the passenger seat, while Karen went round and put Connie's belongings in the boot. Handing Ric a folder, she said,

"That's Connie's medical record for while she was here. You may need it if anything doesn't go according to plan." Taking it from her, Ric thanked her for taking care of Connie, and feeling as though she really hadn't taken the best care of someone he cherished, Karen gave him a brief impulsive hug.

When they were in the car and driving through the late Saturday morning traffic, Connie said,

"I'll have to put the heating on, the house will be freezing."

"Already done," Ric told her, "Plus the Hoover made a brief acquaintance with the carpet and there are clean sheets on the bed."

"Thank you," Connie said quietly, enormously touched by what he'd done for her. "When did Karen phone you?" She asked, knowing that this would undoubtedly take them into unguarded territory.

"Just before eight this morning." There was a long, awful pause, as neither of them knew how to brooch the topic of looming doom between them. In the end, it was Connie, feeling that she had so much to atone for, who broke the silence.

"Ric, I…" He briefly took her right hand in his left as they waited at the traffic lights.

"Don't talk about it now," He told her gently. "All I intend on doing today, is to get you home, help you settle back in and persuade you to rest. Other than telling me what you would like me to get in the way of food shopping, all I want you to do is to rest, and if it is remotely possible, sleep. Yes, we do have a lot to talk about, because I do want a few answers from you, but not today, and only tomorrow if you are feeling up to it. All right?"

"Yes," Connie replied in a tiny, almost timid voice that made Ric want to hold her to the ends of eternity, to protect her from any wrong that might befall her.

"Shall I stop on the way to get you some cigarettes?" He asked, trying to lighten the conversation.

"Yes please," She replied a little teary-eyed. "I gave what I had left to Gina, and asked her to give them to the Julies and Denny." At Ric's raised eyebrow, she clarified. "The two Julies have really looked after me these last few weeks, and Denny practically appointed herself my bodyguard."

"So you did make a few friends?" Ric said, a little surprised at this.

"I wouldn't have survived those first couple of weeks if I hadn't. I was even offered some company at one point."

"Not by one of the officers, I hope," Ric replied angrily, clearly understanding Connie's euphemism for a brief sexual liaison.

"No," Connie assured him. "From one of the other inmates."

"But all the inmates in that prison are…" Ric stopped before he could say female, realising just what Connie had meant.

"Yes, they're all women," Connie finished for him, smiling at his realisation.

"Would you, er, I mean did you…?" He floundered, utterly gobsmacked at the thought of Connie with another woman.

"No, I didn't," She told him with a slight laugh. "Though if I'd been in there for much longer, well, you never know."

When they reached her house, Connie felt almost unreal at the thought of being back home, back in her space. The house was warm and inviting, showing that Ric had been as good as his word.

"It feels quite odd to be home," She said, glancing around the hall, taking in all the familiar surroundings of her home.

"What do you want to do?" Ric asked her, bringing in her bags from the car.

"Have a long hot bath and go to sleep," She told him succinctly. She helped Ric take her things upstairs, and immediately started the water running in the bath in the en suite bathroom, scenting the rising steam with fragrant bubbles. Ric began helping her unpack her belongings, plugging in the clock Cd-radio on the chest of drawers, but Connie firmly put all her clothes into the laundry basket in the bathroom, saying that she wanted to wash all signs of Larkhall away from them before she wore any of them again. When the bath was two thirds full of hot scented water, Connie began struggling to remove her clothes, provoking an exclamation of horror from Ric.

"It doesn't look very pretty, does it," Connie commented dryly, as Ric moved forward to undo her bra for her, seeing that it hurt her shoulders to try and do so herself.

"What on earth caused whoever it was to lay into you like that?" He asked in obvious concern as she sank below the bubbles.

"You know me and my big mouth," Connie told him without any hesitation. "If I think something needs to be said, I say it, except in this case, I should have tried actually thinking before I did say it."

"Would you like a cup of tea?" Ric asked her, observing the look of relief on her face as the hot water soothed her aching muscles.

"Yes please," She said, reflecting that it really was wonderful to be home. She was well aware that she and Ric were as yet only communicating on a surface level, and that they certainly did have far more dangerous and treacherous roads to travel in his quest for answers that she didn't know how to give, but they were here, together, and hopefully they would come through it all relatively unscathed.

When George returned home from Larkhall, she found John in the kitchen making brunch for both of them.

"How's Connie?" He called as he retrieved eggs and bacon from the fridge.

"In a lot of pain and looking terrible," George said as she followed the sound of his voice, finding him cracking eggs into a bowl and adding salt and pepper before beating them. "Mind you, Karen didn't look an awful lot better," She added, kissing his cheek on her way to the kettle. "She said she'd been up most of the night."

"Is Connie well enough to be going home?"

"Just about," George told him, dropping teabags into mugs. "The next couple of days won't exactly be a walk in the park."

When John finally presented George with a plate of grilled bacon, scrambled eggs and hot buttered wholemeal toast, he said quietly,

"I would like to see you eat every bit of that."

"Why on this occasion specifically?" she asked as he sat down opposite to her at the kitchen table with a similar plate of his own.

"Because we have something of a difficult conversation ahead of us."

"We do?" George questioned before eating a forkful of bacon.

"Do you remember what I said to you a month ago about Connie's case?"

"John, you've said a lot to me about Connie's case one way and another, so do please enlighten me as to which particular piece of wisdom you are referring."

"I said to you," John continued, doing his best to remain absolutely calm. "That I thought you were possibly getting a little too emotionally involved with Connie's case. At that time I thought it was possible, now I am entirely certain of it."

"And precisely why is that such a problem for you?" George demanded, his outer façade of calm always a sure fire way of winding her up.

"Darling, I don't want you to get hurt," He told her sincerely. George remained silent once he'd said this, because she was forced to acknowledge to herself that he did have a point. George ate as much as she could with a torrent of feelings whizzing around in her brain. She knew full well that she was getting too attached to Connie, but it wasn't something she could simply prevent from escalating into something far more than genuine friendly concern.

When they'd cleared up between them, still in silence, George said,

"I wish I felt like making love."

"Apart from that being a nice Saturday lunchtime diversion, why in particular?" John asked, softly smiling at her.

"Because it would possibly allow me to release feelings that I have no desire to examine too closely, and because it might seduce you away from making me discuss said feelings."

"I'm not quite so easy to distract," He told her with a laugh.

"Yes you are," She replied, putting her arms round him and kissing him. "And usually I love you for it."

"Is talking to me really so frightening?" He asked her, before taking her hand and leading her to the sofa, and pulling her down to sit beside him.

"John, you might be worrying over something that isn't even an issue. Just because I may or may not have more than friendly feelings towards Connie, certainly doesn't mean they are returned."

"Well, you do now have the time and the opportunity to find out," John said with a slight smile.

"And just how professional would that be?" George demanded scornfully.

"Your dealings with Connie haven't been purely professional since this started," John told her firmly. "You have far too much of a connection with each other, partly through me, to remain professionally detached. Connie needs you, and not just as a lawyer. I have absolutely no doubt that she has told you things that she wouldn't have shared with a mere lawyer in a million years. Both you and I, and Jo to some extent, are in deeper with this trial than we were with Lauren Atkins. The difference this time is that we know for certain that Connie is innocent. I'm as up to my neck in being involved with Connie as you are. I've slept with Connie, and in a few months' time will be listening to Brian Cantwell enlightening the court as to whatever from her past he has managed to dig up. I can't exactly say that I'm looking forward to that. Jo will be far too biased against Connie because I've slept with her, and I will be probably too biased in Connie's favour for precisely the same reason."

"In that case, why on earth are you sitting as a winger in her trial?" George asked him, not having heard until now all the reservations he was having about the situation.

"Because I know that she didn't kill her patient," He told her simply. "And I am determined to do whatever I can to see that she has a fair trial."

"I think there's another reason," George said after a few moments' quiet contemplation. "A reason that you haven't allowed yourself to think of so far. I think that part of you wants to keep an eye on Jo, so that she doesn't allow the power of sitting as a judge for the first time to go to her head, and give her the opportunity to take out her residual jealousy on Connie via the judges' bench."

"Do you honestly think she would do that?" John asked her quietly, not really wanting to believe this.

"Jo is perfectly capable of being vindictive, as would I be if I was in her position. Just look at how she and I have both behaved in court over the years when the other has been the opposition."

"This trial's going to be a complete nightmare," John said with a mulish expression. "You and Jo opposite each other is bad enough, but with Jo on the bench and you as the defence, it'll be power struggles all the way."

"Well, Jo didn't have to agree to sit as the judge in this particular case," George told him disgustedly. "She could have chosen virtually any other case to try her hand at but no, it just had to be the one I am determined to win."

"And she will be keeping her eye on me to make sure I don't break the rules again."

"John, I shall be inordinately surprised if you don't sleep with Connie before her trial," George told him quietly. "I am entirely prepared for that possibility, because you both are like moths to a flame when you know that going to bed with each other is something that should be avoided at all costs."

"Is that your way of giving me permission to pursue her?" John asked with a slight laugh.

"No," George said entirely seriously. "Your attempting to or actually sleeping with Connie now that she is out of prison until her trial, isn't something I especially want to take place, but it is something that I have accepted will probably take place. Whether that is because I am trying to come to terms with the feelings I am developing for her, or because I learnt a long time ago that to make too many expectations of you is the way to get myself hurt, I don't know. It's more than likely a little of both."

After a long thoughtful pause, John said,

"Have you seen anything of Jo recently?"

"No, though I did run into Tom earlier this week, and ended up giving him a mouthful that I really hadn't planned on giving him."

"Do you think she will ever come back to us?"

"Of course she will," George told him, briefly catching sight of the hurt he was trying to conceal. "Jo loves you, John, she always has and she always will. However, I don't think you should entertain too many ideas of she and I regaining the relationship we did have. Jo needs the relationship she has with you, when what I think she only ever needed from me was friendship with a little added experimentation."

"And how do you feel about that?" John asked her, not even trying to deny George's claim.

"I'm sad about it more than anything else. What she had with me was new, different. It allowed her to try something she had a bit of curiosity about. Jo and I will hopefully go back to the close friendship we had before and during the time I was sleeping with Karen. The sexual relationship I had with Jo was never equal, John, and it's about time Jo acknowledged that, at the very least to herself. But I have no doubt whatsoever that Jo will fairly soon want to be back in those arms of yours she knows so well." But when they went to bed that night, George lay there, finding her thoughts turning to Connie, wondering how she was and wondering what she was thinking. Would Connie really be remotely likely to want to explore their friendship even further than they already had? George simply didn't know.


	47. Chapter 47

Part Forty-Seven

The hospital board at St Mary's was thrown into confusion as word was received that Connie Beauchamp was very unexpectedly released from prison custody. It meant that, instead of being very conveniently packaged away in a place that took her destiny out of their hands, they had an awkward decision to make.

"So what do we do about our resident cardio-thoracic surgeon in the meantime? I mean, innocent until proved guilty and all that," a most irritating voice chimed in. Jayne Grayson glared at the man who was better known for his opportunism than for his humanity.

"You're not necessarily talking about the Connie Beauchamp that we all know. She's been in prison for two months," Jayne Grayson replied, her voice edged with tension.

"So, Connie Beauchamp will remain Connie Beauchamp. I'm sure she's champing at the bit to get back to work. Let's face it, it's in our interest. It's a win win situation rather than paying her very expensive salary to do nothing."

"You forget that she has a trial to face. This has to remain strictly confidential," Jayne Grayson added in a slow deliberate tone of voice, fixing her gaze on every member of the board. She hadn't wanted to disclose this very delicate personal matter. "I have had sight of her prison medical file that Ric Griffin gave me. It says that she suffered a miscarriage following a fight with a fellow inmate. I suggest she is put on gardening leave for the time being so that she can recover from her bad experiences."

"For how long? We have to make a decision sooner or later." Jayne Grayson didn't answer the question, as she didn't know the answer herself.

"We've all marveled at the wonders of surgery that Connie Beauchamp has performed," a lazy self-assured voice spoke from the opposite end of the table. He had held back waiting to see how the cards were falling before intervening, "but St. Mary's hospital does not revolve round one admittedly highly talented surgeon. It's time for all of us to move on."

A chorus of approval echoed round the room. Jayne Grayson hid her feelings of anger as her moderate proposal had been hijacked for a different agenda.

As soon as the letter was ripped open, Connie's face turned white with anger and she threw it into the corner of her living room.

"The lying, snivelling sickening cowards. So this is all my hard work is worth," Connie shouted venomously. After she had calmed down a little, she reached for her phone to call Ric.

"Connie Beauchamp staying at home to play happy housewife while her future's at stake? You know as well as I do that the last thing she wants." Tom said with total incredulity when Ric told him a carefully edited version of the background of the news. When Connie first told him, he had wanted to go out and find the man who he strongly suspected was behind this manoeuvre, grab him by the neck and pummel him around the body until he had had enough. Wiser words of caution within him had advised him that while the man might be rather painfully injured, it wouldn't do Connie's cause any good. His mood had simmered down into a state of controlled anger, which was best for moving mountains with, even the St. Mary's hospital board.

"Playing devil's advocate, is that what Connie wants or needs?"

"Both," Tom pronounced with firm conviction." She might need a few days to adjust to the outside world but she'll be climbing up walls waiting for the trial to take place. That will do her no good at all. She's innocent until proved guilty and not the reverse, the way the board are thinking."

"So what do we do to put pressure on the board to get them to change their mind?" Ric asked. He valued Tom's stubbornly effective combative streak in him.

"The obvious course is to get a petition signed that Connie Beauchamp be allowed back to work, subject to medical clearance and if the board do not see fit to allow both the hospital and Connie Beauchamp to benefit from her professional expertise, then the petitioners will go on strike. There's no point in beating about the bush and worse still, have no fallback position," Tom replied in a steely controlled tone of voice.

A broad grin spread across Ric's face. This chimed in perfectly with his own feelings. He couldn't wait to get going as soon as he could. His operating lists needed a little rescheduling. He turned to the computer on his desk, rattled out the words, which flowed like magic onto the electronic page, pasted in a table programme for signatures and punched at the print button. With a careless flourish, he saved it with the document name 'petition.' Grinning to himself, he thought he might as well have gone the whole hog and named it 'insurrection.' Tom looked approvingly over his shoulder at the sentiments expressed.

"So we take two copies of the petition and meet again at the end of the day. Right?"

Ric and Tom laid their plans carefully, leaving the last ones to be asked as those who would be least sympathetic to signing the petition, which meant Diane and Will.

A buzz started quickly round the hospital once Donna's sharp ears had heard what was going on and she told Tricia immediately. That way the ground was already prepared.

Donna made sure that her loud and carrying voice was heard round the ward.

"If this will help get Connie Beauchamp back to where she belongs, I'm happy to sign this petition, " Tricia told Tom with her dazzling smile and a flick of her long hair. This initially warm reaction boosted the man's spirits as, secretly, he felt a little uneasy at strolling round the ward with a pen and clipboard. Nevertheless, he had fought down his inhibitions as just another of life's challenges he must face.

Tom approached Mickie next who he felt sure would be highly sympathetic. She had always worn her feelings of adoration for Connie on her sleeve ever since she was first smitten by the dark-haired woman's charms.

"I've always admired her professionalism and I can't believe what she's been charged with. I mean, we need surgeons we can get," she said profusely, blushing slightly.

"You don't need to give me any spiel, Tom. I'll sign. You give the board hell when you get at them," said Owen shortly, having followed the very capable nurse on his ward.

The two men strode round the ward with growing confidence as success bred success.

"Sure, I'll sign," Chrissie told a very pleased and surprised Ric whose very pleased smile touched Chrissie and nearly provoked her into letting go her guard. "You seem surprised?"

"Well, er, I must admit I am," Ric said almost bashfully.

"I'm not changing my opinion of her as a power mad cow but I'd sooner have a lesbian affair with her rather than think that she'd knowingly taken the life of a patient. It goes against the grain to give her compliments but she's totally professional and dedicated." Here you are," and here she scrawled down her name with a wicked grin, "and you won't get another nice word out of me about her for the next year."

"I can't go along with this," Diane protested in her most virtuous tones. "I don't think that this is the right course of action. Obviously, I don't actually think Connie did kill the patient as there's not a trace of a motive."

"All of your colleagues think otherwise."

"Donna Jackson is at the head of the list, then Tricia. You know how those two can stir matters up. Once strong emotions take hold, then anyone who calmly considers the matter is thought a social outcast."

Ric suppressed his feelings with an effort. Whether she intended it or not, Diane was making the same sort of criticisms of his emotional impulsive nature that she had always done without trying to understand what went into it. She tried always to pretend to herself that she had this focussed way of thinking that when it did operate, worked well for her professional abilities. However, the lady protested too much and at periodic intervals her emotions burst forth to lead her all over the place. This time, he played her at her own game.

"Just look at the names, Diane. Connie has never gone out of her way to win popularity contests. You can see names of those women of who have been bitterly opposed in the past to her. Surely that means something."

"You don't understand, Ric. Perhaps the board is right in stopping her diving back into the deep end. You know what she's like…………..at the end of the day, I'm not risking my career for the likes of Connie Beauchamp."

Ric saw red at once as Diane's real reasons for refusing to sign were finally uncovered. He knew very well that this was straight female jealousy of Connie's place in Ric's affections.

"I'm absolutely sure that this is exactly what the board were thinking. Congratulations, Diane," he replied with acid sarcasm, as he pointedly turned on his heel and strode away from her.

In a separate part of St. Mary's, Tom was having a similar quarrel with Will. He sensed the coldness of this man and suppressed his feelings of dislike for him in trying to appeal reasonably to the man. He wasn't greatly surprised to receive a blank refusal.

"So threatening to go on strike isn't what you were taught on the playing fields of Eton?" he retorted, feeling that, short of professional misconduct in clouting the man, he hadn't anything to lose.

"Actually, it was St Paul's," came the supercilious reply. In his mind, it was an important distinction he was drawing.

"I suppose Sandhurst college and your Army experience has taught you to salute and obey any idiot who gives you an order. It hasn't learned from the days of the Charge of the Light Brigade."

"There speaks the typical ignorant outsider," Will sneered.

"Well, be that as it may, you and I are insiders as far as St Mary's is concerned. You and I know how dedicated Connie Beauchamp is to saving life. We've both worked with her."

"So everyone says. I can understand the general sympathy factor but that's not good enough for me. If you excuse me, I have other patients to see." Tom stared at the man with contempt before he looked at his list and calmed down. He had done a good morning's work and felt buoyant, fulfilled.

Jayne Grayson had caught wind of what was going on and was immediately angered. She didn't like a gun being held to her head but wasn't overkeen of some of the others on the board. What gave her most trouble were the protocols of letting Connie Beauchamp back on the ward, as someone had been responsible of murdering a patient. Nevertheless, she convened an emergency board meeting in the afternoon.

Outtside the door, only open to them when permitted, Tom and Ric felt buoyant as they realized that the mad activity of earlier on had gained them more signatures than they thought possible, especially as they weren't deterred by the clearly phrased threat to take strike action.

"So we play this by ear. I don't want to place emphasis on strike action straightaway," Ric coolly observed.

"But the thought of that might make some of the buggers squirm," retorted Tom. Ric grinned openly at his friend.

The board meeting worked out as a very precisely played chess game of dispassionate argument and counter argument until Ric played the move that he'd been saving up.

"Have you actually talked to Connie Beauchamp about how she feels about being on gardening leave or coming back to work?"

"I've had sight of her medical report from Larkhall Prison," flashed back Jayne Grayson, "in addition to my professionalism in personnel matters."

"There's no substitute to first hand experience," added Tom softly

"What about this totally disgraceful threat to take strike action?" blustered Jayne Grayson feeling hot under the collar. "I take it that one or other of you were the author of the petition."

"I'll hold my hand up to it. The wording was pitched in terms that I guessed that my colleagues would identify with. As you can see by the long list of names, we guessed right," Ric said in easy tones playing his pauses as a consummate actor might except this was in deadly purpose. "You have to understand that what is at the back of it is the zeal to maintain standards at St. Mary's that Connie Beauchamp exemplifies but the determination behind it is very real. Besides, having talked to Connie, it would surely be both merciful to her and in the interests of the trust to let her resume work here."

Tom couldn't help but admire Ric's silver-tongued guile. Every word was finding its mark.

"If you take your place outside," Jayne Grayson said in abrupt tones," I'll come out and inform you of the board's decision."

Both men saw the hard look in the woman's eyes. Don't you dare disagree with me, she was silently saying. They made their silent exit.

Sure enough, Jayne Grayson came out after half an hour. She strode purposefully up to them and wasted no time in expressing her feelings.

"The board has agreed to let Connie Beauchamp back to work as and when she feels ready to resume her duties. This has always been my primary concern but let me make this clear, I do not appreciate in the slightest being badgered into making this decision. You can call off this strike and get back to the operating ward."

Tom let Ric carry on with his line of silver tongued diplomacy. He knew very well that, left to himself, he would crow over their victory. 


	48. Chapter 48

A/N: I have shamelessly borrowed a quote from Judge John Deed series 2 episode 1. Listen to Winter from Vivaldi's four Seasons whilst reading this.

Part forty Eight

Connie couldn't sit still. The Tuesday afternoon in late October was driving her mad. Yes, this was far better than being behind bars, but not being permitted to set foot in the hospital, her hospital, just wasn't fair! The board was having a meeting about her today, deciding what should be her future with them, at least until her trial. The emptiness of the house was really beginning to aggravate her. Ric was at work, as was everyone else she knew, and a bored Connie Beauchamp was usually a dangerous thing. In a moment of sheer inspiration, she locked the front door behind her, got in her car, and drove towards the Old Bailey. There was one person who might just talk to her, and who certainly was owed a thank you by her if nothing else. The carpark was almost devoid of cars when Connie drew her car to a stop, and she realised that at four thirty in the afternoon, court had probably adjourned for the day. She hoped that John would still be there, still up in those chambers where she'd slept with him all those months ago. She owed her freedom to him, and thank him for it she must.

The place seemed deserted as Connie pushed through the heavy swing doors, clerks, barristers, defendants, all gone till tomorrow. Climbing the stairs, Connie hoped that his chambers were still the ones they'd been a few months before. Her high heels seemed unbearably loud on the tiled floor, but as she reached the top of the stairs, she became aware of a very different sound. Somewhere, in the vaults of this ancient Victorian building, someone was playing a violin. It was Vivaldi, she recognised it instantly, and if she knew her Four Seasons, it was the beginning section of Winter. The gloriously clear notes seemed to fill the space around her, echoing off the old stone walls, filling the high ceilinged rooms to capacity. This wasn't simply anyone listening to a CD, because it was only the solo violin part that was being played. As Connie progressed down the corridor, she found herself moving her hand at her side in time to the music. Christ, whoever it was really could play, with such resonance and purity that it made her shiver. They were putting everything they had into the sound, luxuriously wringing every ounce of expression from each and every note. It felt almost as if the music were carrying her, lifting her off her feet and bearing her inexorably towards its source. When she stood outside the door to John's chambers, and realised that it was him who was playing, she stopped for a moment and listened. Did he know just how incredibly he played, she wondered. Did he have any idea of the power that might almost be rocking this building in its very foundations? Deciding that it would be criminal to disturb him, Connie leaned against the wall and simply allowed the music to wash over her. Glancing down the corridor, she saw that one of the other judges had his door open, clearly taking advantage of the beautiful sound coming from the closed door beside her.

When Winter eventually drew to a close, there was silence, apart from the howling wind and pounding rain outside the tall, narrow windows, providing the perfect setting for the final section of Vivaldi's most famous creation. Taking her admiration in both hands, Connie knocked on his door.

"Come in," John called, assuming that someone had come to tell him to please take his music somewhere else.

"Vivaldi, if I'm not very much mistaken," Connie said, walking into the room with a soft smile on her face.

"Connie," John said in surprise, putting his violin down on the desk and moving towards her. "This is a nice surprise. I thought you were someone coming to tell me to shut up."

"Are you joking?" She said in astonishment. "I stood outside and listened to a good deal of that, and I don't think I was the only one."

"Aha, I see that I must learn to guard my talent more carefully," He said softly, the hint of flirtation dancing in his eyes.

"Don't you dare even consider doing such a thing," Connie told him sternly. "That was the most beautiful thing I've heard in a long time, and this building is perfect for it."

"It helps me wind down after a day in court," He said by way of explanation. "Would you like a cup of tea?" Saying that yes, she would, Connie sat down at one end of the sofa, her memories briefly straying back to the last time she'd been here.

"So, how are you?" John asked, pouring them both a cup and sitting down next to her.

"Oh, all right," She said after taking a sip of the scalding liquid. "Just." Then, after putting the cup down on the coffee table, she said, "John, I can't ever thank you enough for getting me out of there."

"You shouldn't have been there in the first place," John said with feeling.

"I know," Connie replied, very much out of her depth. "But all the same, thank you for doing what you did."

"I might have had a little to do with it, Connie, in the matter of persuasion, but it was really Monty Everard who got you out of Larkhall. That had to be done by an impartial judge, so that nobody can question it later on, or more accurately during your trial. I'm only sorry that he didn't do it sooner," John told her sincerely.

"He wouldn't have had any just cause," Connie said matter-of-factly. Then, wanting to satisfy her curiosity about just how much he knew, she asked, "What, exactly, did Karen tell you?"

"She said," John began carefully. "That you'd been beaten up by an inmate, and that it had caused you to miscarry. I am more sorry than I can say, that you had to go through that."

"Please, don't feel too sorry for me, John," She said almost dismissively. "I hadn't entirely decided to keep it."

"That still doesn't mean that it's an easy thing to deal with," He said gently, seeing that her rejecting of sympathy was a front to cover up just how hurt she really was.

"I would be absolutely fine," She said in exasperation. "If I could just go back to work. There would be no time to think, no time to dwell on things that I feel as though I can do nothing about. I still have no idea how I got here, I still don't know how or why that patient died, but I know, that the answer lies somewhere, in, that, hospital, and if they insist on keeping me suspended for the duration, I've got no chance of finding it. The hospital board is deciding on my future, or lack of it, with them today, and being stuck in an empty house doing nothing was driving me mad. I haven't operated in over a month, and I feel like the longer I go without picking up a scalpel, the more likely I am to forget how to do it."

"Connie," John halted her outburst, reaching to take both her hands in his. "You won't forget how to operate, just as I will never forget how to play the violin, or how to fight for justice. If the board won't run the risk, of attracting the lecherous attention of every passing journalist by taking you back, then that is something you will simply have to learn to endure. It may at times feel as though everything is completely beyond your control, but justice is occasionally like that. You must be careful, if you go on the hunt for answers, because that can often do you more harm than good."

"I'm sorry," She said, thinking that she must have sounded completely irrational. "I just wish there was something vaguely useful I could be doing."

"I do understand a little of how you feel," He told her with a slight smile. "I was once banished from doing what I like to think I do best, and forced to go and lecture at a judges' seminar in Warwick, whilst two of my fellow judges decided on whether or not I should be impeached. Though in my case, there was something of a just cause."

"Which was?" She asked, the little twinkle in her eye telling him she could guess precisely what.

"I slept with a claimant, before passing judgment in her case," He told her.

"Why am I not surprised?" Connie said with a rye smile.

"I should be insulted," He said mockingly. Connie laughed in spite of her tension.

"How is the love triangle these days?" She asked, turning serious again.

"The last six months haven't exactly been easy," He replied with a regretful sigh, thinking of all the pain that George's breast cancer and Jo's attempted overdose had wrought. "What happened with George, well, it's taken its toll on all of us. Funnily enough, I think George dealt with it far more successfully than me and Jo put together."

"That's often the way," Connie said gently.

"George still can't quite accept that I do love her, no matter what she looks like."

"She will," Connie assured him. "If you tell her often enough and actually mean it."

Connie had been about to say more, when her mobile rang. With a slightly fearful look at John, Connie dug it out of her jacket pocket. But before she could answer, it stopped, the battery having run down.

"Bloody thing!" Connie exclaimed violently, looking as though she might be about to hurl it across the room.

"Use the one on the desk," John said mildly, gesturing to the landline. With almost trembling hands, Connie switched the phone onto hands free before dialing the number, suddenly wanting John to hear whatever they were about to tell her first hand. When tom answered, she said,

"Sorry, my battery went flat. What's happened?"

"You may return to theatre, as from tomorrow," Tom's cool, relaxed, Scottish tones told her. "Though we did have something of a fight on our hands."

"Why?" Connie asked, still unable to take in the fact that she could go back to work.

"Well, let's just say that a few precautionary threats were necessary, to ensure your safe return to duty," He replied blandly, though with a smile all too evident in his voice.

"Tom, what did you do?" Connie asked suspiciously.

"Oh, only told them that if they didn't allow you back right away, that half your staff would come out on strike." John grinned broadly when he heard this.

"You're not serious?" Connie said in total wonder.

"As serious as my drinking used to be," Tom said dryly. "Myself, Ric, Zubin, Carlos, Owen, Chrissie, Tricia, Donna, you name it. I mean it when I say that literally half the staff were ready to come out and support you. So, on realising that the hospital would pretty much grind to a halt, the trust, and Jayne Grayson in particular, backed down. That was a sight for sore eyes, I can tell you."

"You're all, so, wonderful," She said in a slightly hoarse voice, the tears cascading unheeded down her cheeks. "I, erm, I don't know what to say, except, thank you."

"Ric sends his love," tom said, yet another one to brush away any sign of appreciation. "But he's been called away to a ruptured spleen, so he said he'll see you later. Hang on, Owen wants a word." John now heard a different voice over the phone, one with a distinctive Liverpool broadness that sounded almost out of place, next to Connie's upper class drawl.

"Connie," Owen said without further ado. "I want you to come and see me, first thing tomorrow." His tone brooked no argument.

"Why?" Connie asked, though thinking she knew the answer.

"Ric told me what happened," Owen said simply. "You need to be checked out."

"I'm fine, really," Connie tried to assure him.

"Connie, just do it," Owen said gently but firmly.

"All right, all right," Connie said wearily, seeing that she wasn't going to change his mind. "But only if you'll do something for me. Set up a tab in the bar, for everyone who deserves an enormous drink, and I'll pay it tomorrow."

"I'm sure Donna will be pleased to hear about that," Owen said dryly. "Any excuse for a party."

"You're just as bad," Connie said fondly. "And, thank you, so much for doing this."

"Oh, no worries," Owen said dismissively, as if threatening to go on strike was something he did every day.

When Connie switched off the phone, she realised that she was still crying. Walking slowly over to her, John put his arms round her, gently holding her as the sobs she had been trying to suppress wracked her body. John had the feeling that she hadn't cried once since she'd lost the baby, and that the realisation of just how many people were gunning for her, had finally tipped the balance. Connie clung to him, just for those few moments betraying her weakness. Softly kissing her cheek, John could taste the salt of her tears, undoubtable evidence that she had the capacity for deep feelings just as he did. She always tried to hide those feelings, he knew that now, yet here, in his arms, she was finally letting down that emotional barrier.

"You've got a lot of friends," He said as she began to calm down.

"I know," She said between gasps. "Utter bloody angels, every one of them." Eventually detaching herself from him, she reached for the box of tissues on the coffee table, now feeling a little foolish at her outburst.

"Who's Owen?" John asked, trying to find something to put her at her ease.

"Owen Davis, the best consultant obstetrician in the business. One can keep no secrets from one's colleagues," She added dryly. "God," She said, wiping her eyes. "I can't believe they were all prepared to do that."

"The desire for justice, is one of the finest of human aspirations," John told her seriously. "That's clearly what they all want for you, and for their profession."

"And as from tomorrow," Connie said with total determination. "That is precisely what I intend to fight for, because I will not, under any circumstances, let the little weasel who is trying to blacken the name of the profession I stand for, get away with it for a moment longer."


	49. Chapter 49

Part Forty Nine

On the Wednesday morning, Connie felt a mixture of excitement and nervousness. She wasn't entirely sure how her colleagues would receive her return to duty, though this was stupid, she told herself. Many of her friends and colleagues had threatened to go on strike if the board hadn't allowed her back to her rightful post. But this didn't prevent her from feeling a trifle odd at the thought of taking up a scalpel again. Would she still be able to wield the tools of her trade in the confident accurate manner she previously had? As she drove towards St. Mary's, she reflected on the hour or so that she'd spent with John the day before. He had been incredibly nice to her, as though he really cared about what happened to her. He wasn't just a judge she had once slept with, she realised, he was a friend, who would try to do everything he possibly could to help her through the coming ordeal.

As her silver-grey jag swept into the hospital car park, Ric stood by the entrance doors that those who worked on Keller and Darwin usually used, watching her with a smile on his face. Taking a drag from his cigarette, he watched her get out of her car, thinking that she looked an awful lot better than she had when he'd first caught sight of her on Saturday. She still carried the marks of fading bruises, and from this distance she certainly looked a little nervous, possibly showing that she was more than a little wary of her reception. As Connie locked her car and walked towards Ric, she gave him a broad smile.

"Disgusting habit, Mr. Griffin," She told him with mock sternness, taking the cigarette from his hand and taking a drag of it herself, making Ric laugh.

"Says she," He said, taking the cigarette back from her and ditching it. "It's good to see you back," he said, putting his arms round her and hugging her tightly to him.

"It's very good to be back," She told him in slight relief, kissing him tenderly. Privately thinking that he could all too easily get lost in those endless violet eyes of hers, Ric told himself stonily that he would not, no matter what it took, he would not let her go back to that prison without a fight. He kissed her back, momentarily wishing that they could stay like this for ever.

"Get a room you two," Came the mocking voice of Donna Jackson.

"Nice to see you too, Nurse Jackson," Connie replied, stepping slightly back from Ric.

"So, can I tell everyone you're back?" Donna asked as she made to pass them.

"Feel free," Connie told her. "I won't be long."

"I can't pretend that everyone will be pleased to see you," Donna told her with a slight frown.

"Oh, who in particular?" Connie asked, thinking that she may as well know the worst of it before she took up her place on her old ward again.

"Diane and Will, just to name two," Donna said, ignoring the frown Ric was giving her.

"Oh really," Connie said interestedly. "So, didn't either of them want me back then? Mind you, that wouldn't exactly be much of a surprise."

"They wouldn't sign your petition," Donna filled in, always having enjoyed being the Queen of the gossip ring at St. Mary's. "Even Chrissie signed it."

"Donna, leave it for now, please?" Ric all but begged her.

"Okay," Donna agreed mildly.

"You can fill me in on all the rest of the gossip later," Connie called after her as she walked off down the corridor. There was a short silence when Donna had gone, until Connie said, "I've got to go and see Owen."

"Do you want me to come with you?" Ric asked, wishing that Donna hadn't said all that about Diane to Connie.

"There's no need," Connie told him quietly. "I'll be fine."

As she walked into Maternity, Connie saw Mickie sitting at the desk, going through the day's appointments on the computer. As Connie's shadow fell across the screen, Mickie looked up and smiled.

"Mrs. Beauchamp," She said in welcome. "It's good to see you."

"Where might I find Mr. Davis?"

"He's in the scanning room, waiting for you," Mickie told her. "How are you?" by the tone of Mickie's voice, Connie could tell that she knew of the reason for Connie's being let out of prison.

"I'm much better than I was," Connie told her quietly. She found Owen as Mickie had said, in the scanning room, clearly waiting for her.

"So, you're back then?" He greeted her with a smile.

"Not without yours and other people's help," She replied with a smile of her own. "Though I am reliably informed that some people would rather that I hadn't been allowed back to duty."

"Tell me about it," Owen grimaced as he gestured to her to take a seat. "Diane didn't stop talking about it last night."

"Owen, I don't want to have made things difficult for anyone," She told him a little sombrely.

"It won't be the first thing me and Diane have disagreed on," Owen told her philosophically. "That's just part of life. Now, tell me exactly what happened last week." As Connie began giving him a rough outline of the fight she'd had with Natalie Buxton, Owen frowned with obvious anger.

"She didn't get away with it completely unscathed," Connie tried to reassure him.

"I'm glad to hear it," Owen replied, "Though far be it from me to encourage fighting, especially in a pregnant woman." Handing him her prison medical file, Connie said,

"In there is everything that happened after the fight on Friday." After taking in the contents of the file, Owen asked,

"When did you stop bleeding?"

"Yesterday," Connie told him. "And I'm only getting slight pain from the bruises."

"Okay," Owen said decisively. "I'll take some blood, to get your iron levels, hormone levels and full biochemistry. After that, I'll do a scan, just to make sure everything's definitely gone."

"There's really no need," Connie told him. "The prison doctor was very good."

"I'm doing this just as much for Ric's peace of mind as for yours."

"Okay," Connie agreed, inwardly touched at Ric's level of concern for her after the way she had treated him.

When Connie was lying on the examination table having removed her skirt and underwear, Owen squeezed some cold gel over the fading bruise on her abdomen.

"That looks pretty nasty," He commented thoughtfully. "Did whoever you were fighting with kick you?"

"Yes, I think so. I suppose I shouldn't really have slapped her face to begin with, but there you are, it's brilliant to have twenty-twenty hindsight."

"What did she say to make you do that?" Owen asked as he began moving the transducer over Connie's womb.

"She implied that I was sleeping with my barrister, which I'm definitely not. But you could say that we wound each other up from day one."

"I see," Owen said as he watched what was happening on the screen. "There's your placental scar," He said, gesturing to the monitor. "It all looks relatively normal."

"Good," Connie said, sounding almost terrified, knowing precisely what Owen was about to find.

"Connie," Owen said eventually. "This wasn't your first pregnancy, was it?"

~"why ask when the evidence is staring you in the face?" Connie demanded miserably.

"You've got another placental scar, a much older one, a scar that looks a lot more developed than the one from your miscarriage."

"Please don't go there, Owen," Connie asked him quietly. "Because you really don't want the answers that you're looking for."

"Was it a long time ago?" Owen asked, fully tracing the uterine scar with the transducer.

"It was so long ago, that it doesn't need to be discussed by all and sundry now. Is that quite clear?" Connie demanded icily.

"Connie, I'm not about to break a confidence," Owen told her as he switched off the ultrasound scanner.

"I'll hold you to that," Connie promised as she put her clothes on, hoping that Owen really could keep his word.

When Connie emerged from the lift on the fifth floor, in between Keller and Darwin wards, a burst of applause and cheering greeted her. Connie stood there utterly astounded, blushing to the roots of her dark curly hair, amazed at just how many people were so obviously pleased to see her.

"I haven't been found not guilty yet," She said into the hum of voices.

"You will be though, won't you," Donna said, sounding so certain of it that Connie found herself crossing her fingers.

"Let's hope so," She replied with a smile. After having received a personal greeting from most people, Connie finally came face to face with Will Curtis. "Well, well," She said, taking in the true depth of Will's scowl. "Not quite so please to see me after all, Mr. Curtis. It's obviously your bad day and my good, wouldn't you agree?"

"One wonders how long this freedom will last," Will told her quietly. "I might be taking over your office after all in a few months' time."

"Oh, I wouldn't bank on it if I were you," Connie told him just as quietly, trying to remind herself not to rock the boat where this man was concerned, because he could still mean her downfall.

A little while later as Connie was reacquainting herself with her computer in her office, trying to sort out which emails she could actually deal with, Ric tapped on the door and put his head in.

"How does it feel?" He asked, coming in when she smiled over at him.

"Bizarre," She told him succinctly. "It's not quite real somehow."

"I saw you talking to Will Curtis," Ric told her, sitting down in the leather armchair on the other side of Connie's desk.

"Yeah, well, we all have our cross to bear," Connie replied philosophically. "Mine just happens to be a rich bastard who would like to get me put behind bars for a ten year stretch. Still, the more he says the kind of thing he did to me this morning, the more he will play into George's hands."

"You need to be very, very careful where he's concerned," Ric told her firmly.

"I know, and I will," Connie promised him. "But I'm not going to discourage him from throwing threats and insults at every turn. I fully intend to let him dig his own grave."

"Do you really think it was him?" Ric asked, not really wanting to believe it.

"I'm more certain now than I was a week ago," She said, "But I currently have absolutely no proof." After a moment's pause, Ric asked,

"How did it go with Owen?"

"Everything's fine, physically anyway."

"What about the rest of it?" Ric asked, knowing that she was trying to avoid being honest with him about her actual feelings on the subject.

"I feel almost unbearably guilty," She told him quietly. "But I suppose that's only to be expected."

"Connie, I don't want you to feel guilty," He said, it hurting him immeasurably that she was allowing what had happened to eat her up like this.

"But virtually everything was my fault," She told him miserably. "It was entirely my fault that you didn't even know I was pregnant until last weekend. I know what I said on Sunday, that I didn't tell you because I didn't know if you would want me to keep it. Jesus, I didn't even know if I wanted to keep it. But I still should have told you about it. Then, if I'd actually used some of that intelligence I like to think I possess, I wouldn't have reacted to something that Natalie bloody Buxton said to me. But I did react to it, both verbally and by slapping her face. If I hadn't done that, then we wouldn't have got into a fight, and your baby would still be alive." Tears rose to her eyes as she said this last bit, and Ric reached across the desk to take her hands in his. He could see only too clearly that suddenly being back here, suddenly being allowed back to work, back to the job she loved so well, had thrown Connie emotionally right off course.

"Connie, listen to me," Ric cajoled. "I don't blame you for losing our baby."

"Well you should," She told him bitterly.

"And when did I ever do anything I was supposed to do?" He asked her fondly.

"Ric, please will you just give me some space?" Connie almost pleaded with him.

"Yes, if that's really what you want," Ric told her sadly, not remotely convinced that this was what Connie actually needed.


	50. Chapter 50

Part Fifty

Nikki was just finishing her morning meeting with the prison officers when Karen sidled in quietly and let her finish.

"I was wondering, Nikki, but have you heard how Connie Beauchamp is getting on since she was released?" Dominic asked in a concerned voice. Karen smiled slightly at the question as it presupposed that Nikki would be an inexhaustible fount of knowledge. She saw out of the corner of her eye how Bodybag couldn't help surreptitiously grimacing in disdain and also how Nikki studiously ignored her. Bodybag was, in fact, rather surprised that since her hand in Connie Beauchamp being beaten up, she hadn't heard a whisper about it. In her experience, the first twenty-four hours were critical as to whether the bomb would actually drop. She foolishly supposed that she was getting to be in the clear.

"I have to be honest but I don't know. I will chase that one up as I know for a fact that the G wing investigation service is working overtime out so we ought to ensure that everyone hears officially. You can guess how concerned they have been about her, the same as we have."

Everyone laughed appreciatively at Nikki's mixture of dry wit, honesty and humanity.

"Excuse me adding a quick word but I was going to ask you, Nikki if you've committed yourself to anything this morning that demands your personal attention."

"Not offhand," Nikki answered smoothly with half a suspicion of what was in store.

"That's good as you're needed at Area on a special project. It isn't going to be a jolly so get prepared to be worked hard. The food's decent though," Karen answered lightly, sensing Bodybag's suspicious eyes fixed on her.

"I'll hold the fort, Nikki. We're all clear on what we've got to do," Gina said with an elaborately casual manner. She had an inkling of what was going on.

Soon, they were freely strolling through the courtyard, dropping their keys in the slot and turned to Karen's green sports car. As soon as they were on the road, Karen gave her the news.

"You do know, Nikki, that we're going to see Neil Grayling at Area Management to put the bomb under Sylvia for good and all. I wasn't kidding about being worked to death as this will mean some very clear thinking."

Nikki sat back and let Karen manoeuvre her car through to the busy traffic to Cleland House and once again, found it very imposing. She'd last been there over a year ago when she'd been interviewed for her job. This time around, she felt as if she had more chance to take in her surroundings. She stared open mouthed at the commissionaire's booth, which alone looked smarter than her office. It was nice enough for her purposes but let in the draughts in wintertime. Nikki collected her wits, followed Karen's lead and signed in after her.

"Miss Betts and Ms Wade. We've been expecting you. You know where to go?" said the well-groomed woman behind the desk with a professional smile of engagement with them. For a second, Nikki did a double take 'she means me?' before her sense of professionalism kicked in. Karen's sideways grin showed that she'd spotted the other woman's momentary confusion.

"Unless Neil's moved office, I know the way there just fine," she answered for both of them. Nikki was dreamily thinking of the open door, the key that turned the lock, the pass to go wherever she might wish, the freedom to walk wherever she wished were experiences that still gratified her sense of her rightful place in the world without her being a power-mad egomaniac. The other woman read her thoughts.

"Do you know, Nikki, there are people here who moan about their boring nine to five existence," Karen said lightly and ironically as the lift slid smoothly and upwards.

"That will be the day Karen," laughed the dark-haired woman at such absurdities.

The two women strolled across the open office, catching sight of Alison Warner who promptly doubled back on her path. Karen led the way to Neil's room, knocked on the door and was greeted by a broad welcoming grin and a hearty handshake. His room was just like any other except for an abstract picture on the wall. It had an enigmatic Picasso quality about it but to the discerning eye, looked suspiciously like a male nude.

"Am I glad to see you both. You're admiring at the picture in the strictly aesthetic sense?"

The two grins in reply were answer enough. Others saw it as an incomprehensible series of jagged blotches, which only confirmed them in their opinions that while Grayling was undoubtedly highly talented, eccentricities, lurked behind his impassive exterior. It seemed to such narrow-minded people that the man was always having a secret joke at their expense.

"My partner bought it for me. He very kindly thought that my office could do with personalizing, something that would remind me of him. It works, I tell you."

After deftly setting both women at ease, sensing the burden laying on them both, he hospitably poured them a cup of tea before cutting to the chase.

"We know you're here on business rather than pleasure and you and I know that you are haunted by what's happening in the ranch while you're away, the umbilical chord sensation so fire away."

"Thereby hangs a story Neil," Karen dryly commented. "We're confident that now is the time to do just that to Sylvia Hollamby. It's time for her to go."

Neil Grayling whistled with astonishment that the two women were going ahead with their plan. He wasn't sure if they would take him up in his off the cuff advice to Karen when she first broached the matter. He wondered if they knew what they were taking on. His expression of doubt prompted Karen to pull out her file.

"We thought we'd rather not talk interminably about Sylvia's misdeeds but show you this file. I followed your advice and asked for Nikki's input from her wide experience from the other side of the wire as well as her most recent experience. As it happened, Nikki bounced her ideas off Helen Stewart's very retentive memory. While I've put my name to this, I want to give credit where it's due. It certainly argues for a thorough internal fact finding investigation into Sylvia's conduct."

Grayling looked at the neatly typed notes and his jaw dropped open. The picture was remarkably lucidly put and he had to admire their thoroughness. He saw straightaway where Nikki's earlier experience of Larkhall entered the picture.

"Jesus, even I've forgotten some of this," he muttered, his eyes disbelieving their evidence. "There's such a lot that's before my time as well. The picture is blindingly clear. She has an instinct in committing some ghastly blunder out of a mixture of bigotry and incompetence, and keeping her head long enough so that the full consequences aren't visited on her."

"And she had Fenner to protect her," Nikki added, a shade of her old bitterness creeping in.

"What I'm interested in is the most recent event, the way that this Connie Beauchamp was assaulted. I want you to explain very carefully how this happened to take place as this is critical."

"Well, you know from experience what Natalie Buxton's like, Neil," Nikki patiently explained. "You cannot overstate her capacity to be vengefully jealous of another woman who's well educated, with a sharp tongue but without the muscle to get her to back off. I sensed trouble brewing up and gave strict instructions for prison officers to keep their eyes peeled for the slightest trace of trouble and to step in immediately. A number of the better prisoners have been really looking out for her, trying to get Connie to cool it, the way Sylvia Hollamby could have done but didn't…."

"Your friends from the old days, Nikki," interjected Grayling with sympathetic understanding of a note of passionate feeling starting to shade Nikki's delivery. "That's fine by me. In fact, it helps the situation rather than hinders."

"Nikki kept me in touch with every development," interjected Karen with great emphasis. "Everything she's done, I approved. She could have had Buxton shipped out only we would have shunted off the problem to a prison where they would have, at best, spent six months being taken in by her plausibility. You and I know that files only tell you so much."

"So how did these excellent arrangements fall apart? Don't get me wrong," added Grayling hastily as he saw both women bridle at the question. "I'm playing devil's advocate here, to check out any weak points the best to defend ourselves. You know very well that Sylvia's going to play the counter blame game."

"It was the wrong people around at the wrong time," Nikki said in patient tones, trying to relate the story in calm objective tones. "Karen and I were in Karen's office. The argument broke loose around the TV area on association, which was crowded. Dominic McAllister and Gina Rossi were around by the pool table, the wrong side of the crowd. Colin Hedges was close but not close enough. Only Sylvia Hollamby was on the spot. For Christ's sake, the Julies and Denny Blood were in the Julie's cell on the 2s and they came shooting out only there were prisoners standing on the staircase getting in the way. Some of the, well, less intelligent prisoners were shouting 'fight' fight, fight,' revving up the situation. Only Bodybag, I mean Sylvia Hollamby was standing there, grinning her face off. She never said a word, never made the slightest effort to try and get some control of the situation and by the time Gina and I got our hands on Buxton, Connie Beauchamp was lying on the floor bleeding….."

As Nikki gradually broke loose from its official constraints and her voice became more impassioned, Grayling's face was a picture. He could visualize the tragedy so very clearly.

"Putting aside your obvious feelings on the matter only in the interest of getting this to stick, do you think this links with Sylvia's earlier assault on Ms Beauchamp. Weigh the evidence very carefully," Grayling commanded.

The guy sounds like John. Karen thought as she cleared her mind and gave judgment.

"Without the slightest doubt, Neil. I can't find any other explanation that fits the facts."

"In which case, I am going to head the investigation for three clear reasons. Firstly, I am best fitted because you have been involved too closely with Sylvia. Secondly, well, it's my unfinished business as well and thirdly, Sylvia's old fashioned POA. We have to consider her going to appeal on this which will bounce this up to area level which is where I come in."

"Is that all?" Karen said in an obviously disappointed voice. Nikki's face said the same. It all sounded fine but nothing immediately was going to happen to the evil cow.

"No it isn't. You have my authorization to suspend Sylvia Hollamby from official duties forthwith. Get her to catch up on her gardening."

Both women promptly cheered up and the sun shone brightly into Grayling's window.

Neither woman remembered the journey back to Larkhall as they were so hyped up with the mission in hand. It was a wonder Karen kept her eyes on the road.

"We handle it this way," Karen said, fortifying herself with a shot of whisky from her bottle." I'll do the talking and you record everything in this notebook. We go for broke, got it."

Nikki nodded. Karen was her boss and this struck her as the best two-handed arrangement. Besides, Karen wanted Sylvia's scalp for herself.

"Karen Betts wants to see you," Colin told Bodybag as she was in the middle of drinking tea from her favourite 'Charles and Di' mug. "Straight away she says."

"Oh, can't it wait. I've had such a morning of it," she moaned going on to make the obvious dig. "We've been so short staffed."

"It can't," Colin said, talking half away from the mouthpiece while down the other end of the line, Karen gleefully thanked Colin and gestured a 'thumbs up' to Nikki. "For all you know, she might be offering you a promotion."

Bodybag scowled at this cheeky whippersnapper and stalked out of the PO room. Her half drunk mug of tea remained behind her.

"Sylvia Hollamby, I have called you for an interview about a serious matter that's come to my attention. Allegations of gross professional conduct have come to my attention. Nikki is here purely in a capacity of note taker. Before I proceed further, I must remind you of your rights for a POA representative. If you take up this right, I will of course, adjourn to a date and time mutually convenient."

"I am the POA," Bodybag said huffily, operating on automatic ego. "I'm able to represent myself perfectly well."

Behind the other two women's grave faces, they gave a leap of joy within them. Karen was on a roll and her one fear was to break off when she mightn't feel as determined as now to see this through. Nikki scrawled the vital phrases, her energies intent on listening and recording.

"As you know, Connie Beauchamp was seriously assaulted by Natalie Buxton whose offence has been adjudicated on to the maximum amount allowable. Nikki and I have seen enough to suggest that your professionalism was seriously compromised."

"Well, you would think that wouldn't you. You've both always had it in for me. You'll be judge, jury and executioner."

"Which is why the investigator will be from area level, not me and not Nikki," Karen said dryly. She'd seen that coming. Bodybag turned white with shock. She'd seen Area investigators before, ruthless grey faced hatchet men. They'd sacked Stubberfield for something that clearly wasn't his fault.

"He won't have the slightest idea what the inside of a prison is like. This is a complete farce. You might as well ask the Great Train Robbers as anyone," Bodybag protested loudly.

"That's where you are mistaken Sylvia," Karen said with the faint suspicion of a smile on her face while Nikki lowered her head and scribbled away like mad. Karen couldn't resist a dramatic pause as she prepared to deliver the coup de grace. "The investigator is Neil Grayling. Satisfied now? In the meantime, I am suspending you for the duration of the investigation. You can remove your belongings immediately."

The bottom dropped out of Bodybag's world as Karen's steely tone of voice could not be gainsaid. Expressionlessly, Nikki escorted the stiffly walking woman towards the exit, helping to carry the contents of her locker to finally gain her freedom at last. The mug of tea remained undrunk in the PO room.


	51. Chapter 51

Part Fifty One

On the Saturday afternoon, a week after Connie had been allowed out of prison, Connie was in her office at the hospital, reacquainting herself with the myriad of paperwork that other people had been forced to deal with whilst she was away. Her door was open and she could hear the various sounds of the ward, and it comforted her to know that Ric was just down the corridor, also using the Saturday afternoon to catch up on admin. She had done this a thousand times before, but she couldn't escape the feeling that something wasn't quite right. Part of her felt tense, on edge, as though different parts of her were working against each other, rather than all working to the same end, to keep her going whatever happened. She felt as though her pulse was racing, though she knew that it wasn't, as though her fight or flight response to stress was in full swing. Everything ought to feel at least vaguely back to normal, she thought to herself, whilst knowing that nothing had been remotely normal since she'd left prison. It was Ric, she decided finally, he was being so gentle, so understanding, and so god damned nice to her that it was almost suffocating. He had stayed with her for the first couple of days, taking care of her physical needs, and giving her the room to discuss what had happened, but not pressuring her into it if she didn't want to talk about it. Another thing, on Monday, when he had obviously gone back to work, Ric seemed to understand without her even raising the subject that she wanted some time to herself, to get used to being in her house alone, without him, without Michael. He'd brought her a cup of tea in bed on the Monday morning, kissed her goodbye and said that he'd ring her that evening. Yet she had known, somehow, that if she'd changed her mind and wanted him to stay that night, he would have done. Then, on the Wednesday morning, when she'd come back to work, he had again been there for her. But when she'd categorically asked him to give her space, he had acquiesced. Then, a horrifying thought occurred to her. Was Ric in love with her? Did he in fact love her?

"Oh! God! No!" She exclaimed, thumping her clenched fist into the surface of her desk, almost wanting to scream at the utter incongruity of such a thing. He couldn't, he just couldn't love her. It was a well known fact, at least to herself, that Connie Beauchamp was bad, mad and definitely dangerous to know. She didn't have anything, except perhaps her figure, that was worth loving. She was made up of a tongue that could be both gutter filthy and razor sharp in equal proportions, emotions that even at the age of thirty-nine she couldn't explain, and a level of skill at manipulation that at times frightened even her. It actually made her feel quite sick to sum herself up so thoroughly, but nothing she'd thought was untrue. She knew it, even if nobody else did.

"Are you all right?" Looking over to where the voice had come from, Connie saw Donna Jackson in the doorway.

"I'm fine," Connie replied, not sounding altogether sure of herself.

"You don't look it," Donna told her matter-of-factly, observing the way Connie was massaging her right hand in her left. "You're really pale."

"I'm fine," Connie reiterated. "I think I'll go and top up my Nicotine levels." She needed to get out of here, to get away from anyone who might question her too closely. Once up on the hospital roof, she could breathe freely again. The thought that Ric might have significantly deep feelings for her startled her immensely. She couldn't deal with love, she didn't understand it, but this was almost certainly what Ric really felt for her. Ric undoubtedly deserved reciprocation from her, but Connie didn't think she could give it to him. It wasn't that she didn't feel an enormous amount of affection for Ric because she did, both for how he'd supported her during her stay in prison and, she knew, how he would probably go on supporting her until her trial. But she knew that she definitely didn't love him. Connie didn't think she'd ever loved anyone, not with that all consuming, utterly enthralling passion that made you play the soppiest music going and think about the person at any number of highly inappropriate moments. As she smoked, she wondered what she could possibly do about Ric. She needed to somehow convey to him just how much she really did appreciate what he'd done for her, but in a way that might help to put them back onto their previous footing that mainly consisted of giving each other sexual gratification. Then, as the thought occurred to her, she could have kicked herself for not thinking of it earlier. The only way to achieve what she wanted to achieve was to quite literally go back to what she and Ric had with each other before her incarceration. The language of lovers was a form of communication she knew better than any other in her repertoire. Well, that was it then, she mused as she ditched her cigarette end over the roof, seduction would yet again be the answer to at least one of her problems.

Returning to her office, Connie switched off the computer, deciding that four-thirty on a Saturday was quite late enough to be at work if she didn't absolutely have to be there. After taking a few minutes to redo her make up and renew her perfume, she locked her office door and made her way along to Ric's. She found him in much the same situation as she had been before her trip up to the roof.

"Can I tempt your attention away from that lot?" She said, closing the door of his office behind her and gesturing to the patient records he was currently updating.

"Oh, please do," He said theatrically, leaning back in his chair and stretching his arms above his head to release the kinks from his shoulders.

"Do you have any plans for this evening?" Connie asked, slipping round his desk to where he sat and perching on the edge.

"Not that I'm aware of," Ric said, smiling at her.

"Good," She said, laying a hand on his right cheek, moving her thumb over the slight stubble on his chin.

"What did you have in mind?" He asked, anticipating nothing more exciting than a relaxing evening with Connie, cooking a meal together, maybe watching a film, and eventually going to sleep cuddled closely in her bed.

"I thought I might cook you dinner," She said with a smile, "And I don't know about you, but I would quite like to be reminded of just how talented those surgeon's hands really are." The way she trailed her hand down to his collar, and the lascivious smile she gave him left him in no doubt precisely what she meant. Pushing his chair away from her in anger, he said,

"No way, Connie."

"Well, I suppose that's nice and decisive," Connie told him bitterly.

"Connie, sleeping with you is just about the last thing I want right now."

"Why?" She demanded, feeling as though he'd slapped her. "Is sleeping with a suspected killer that slightest bit too dangerous for you? Funny, but I thought you used to enjoy raising the stakes as high as possible. After all, sleeping with someone soon to go on trial for murder can't possibly be more reckless and stupid than putting twenty grand on the roulette wheel." In the resulting silence they stared gobsmacked at each other. Connie couldn't believe she'd just said that, knowing that for someone like Ric, that was way below the proverbial belt.

"And just why," Ric demanded just as scornfully. "Would I want to have sex with someone who won't even think of letting me get remotely close to her? Yes, Connie, you are incredibly beautiful, and you are definitely the most sexually exciting woman that I've ever been to bed with, but emotionally, you're about as cold as the North Pole."

"It didn't appear to bother you before I ended up in prison," She threw back at him, not wanting to examine his statement too thoroughly.

"Connie, you don't try to ignore the existence of a pregnancy just because you don't know how you or the father might feel about it. You don't carry my baby for nearly four months without telling me about it, and you certainly don't try to sleep with me again just because you want to avoid talking about it."

"Do you know something," Connie said, the tears now running freely down her cheeks. "If I didn't have this fucking farce of a murder charge hanging over my head like the sword of Damocles, and if you had wanted me to continue with the pregnancy, I would have done. I would have given birth to your daughter, and I would have loved her and brought her up to the best of my ability. The reason why I wanted to make love to you, is because maybe I'm trying to regain just a little bit of normality, just perhaps I wanted to feel good about something again." Turning on her heel, Connie swept out of his office, slamming the door behind her.

Staring absolutely astonished after her, Ric sat at his desk thinking about everything she'd said. So, their child had been a girl, they would have had a daughter. Would he have asked her to keep it? He didn't know. He hadn't been a particularly good father to his other nine children, but might it have been different with this one? As for Connie trying to get back something she knew, something she understood, well, he knew all about that, didn't he. That was the precise reason he had returned to the gambling all those times, to regain that feeling of temporary happiness that he always craved at times of stress. He thoroughly understood her need for normalcy, but he also knew that if he had slept with her, nothing would have been sorted out, nothing would have been resolved.

By the time Connie returned home, her tears had dried, leaving a weight in her chest that she couldn't seem to eradicate. She lay in a hot bath, with music on in the bedroom and a glass of wine to hand, but her thoughts kept returning again and again to what Ric had said to her. He'd said that she was as emotionally cold as the North Pole. Whether or not he was right wasn't really in question, because Connie knew that he was, but what she couldn't reconcile herself with was why that seemed to matter to him. She knew precisely why it was that she kept all her feelings buried. It was because to let them out, to allow them what amounted to free rein, meant risking her very soul, putting it on display for others to wound even more than it already had been. Confronting her feelings, giving them to someone to do with what they would, terrified Connie. Not giving anyone access to her emotional core was how she survived. But that didn't necessarily mean this was how she wanted to live. Connie would have dearly liked to become emotionally involved with someone, to really show someone just how frightened and confused she was at what was currently happening to her, to take comfort from someone just by being held in a pair of arms, with any physical aspect to a relationship being a secondary instead of a primary concern. As she lay there, Elton John playing softly in the background, she thought of George. Perhaps with George Connie did have something akin to an emotional relationship. They certainly didn't have a physical connection, no matter what Natalie Buxton had said, though Connie couldn't quite deny an interest in finding out just what that would be like. Connie could visualise George as she'd last seen her, when George had come to see her at the prison after the miscarriage. Her very petite body had been clad in a fairly casual blue skirt and top, and the only reason that Connie could tell that one of George's breasts was false was because she knew about it. She could remember George's beautifully sculptured face, with those big blue eyes and incredibly full lips, looking at her in concern, as though she really did care what happened to Connie, which Connie was forced to admit was true. Connie was all too well aware that she was probably getting way too attached to George, but this wasn't something that Connie could bear considering to halt in its tracks. There was something about George, something that was almost a siren's call, luring her into abandoning everything she thought she knew about friendships, about relationships. George, whether she knew it or not, was in some way calling to Connie, urging her to give not only her body, but her soul to a woman, to open her heart up to something entirely different, indisputably new. As Connie's thoughts returned to George's beautiful lips, she could far too easily picture them wrapped around John's cock, an image that she realised she would give an awful lot to witness. As she cupped a breast in each hand, gently rolling her nipples between finger and thumb, she found herself wondering if this was what it felt like to make love with a woman. Bowing to the inevitable, Connie slipped one hand beneath the water, deftly seeking out her clitoris, her masterful manipulation causing her to suck a breath in through her teeth at the images that were now bombarding her mind. She wondered what those lips of George's tasted like, what they would feel like against her own. As she came with a groan of satisfaction, she couldn't quite believe she'd just done that, fantasised about George, and to some extent about John and George. But one thing it had achieved was to help her calm down a little, to slightly temper the fight or flight feeling that she'd had all day, which she could now attribute to sexual frustration. Putting the argument with Ric to the back of her mind for now, Connie got out of the bath and thought about making herself something to eat, the smile on her face testament to how powerful her thoughts of George had really been.

When George actually phoned later that evening, Connie found herself blushing.

"Get a grip," She told herself as she moved to pick up the cordless phone from the coffee table. "Connie Beauchamp does not blush."

"How are you?" George asked.

"Drowning in paperwork," Connie told her. "But for the first time, I'm glad of it."

"I thought I'd give you a few days to get back into things," George told her. "But there are a couple of things I need to pick your brains about."

"I don't know whether that sounds ominous or interesting," Connie said with a grimace.

"It could be both," George conceded. Connie invited George to come over, and George agreed, saying that she would bring a bottle of wine as a peace offering for the questions she was about to ask.

When George drew up outside Connie's house, her eyebrows soared. Yes, she knew that being a surgeon who often did private work, Connie would obviously sometimes be earning the kind of money she did as a barrister, but George knew now though that Connie's husband Michael must also be pretty well off. The house was without doubt bigger than hers, though with Connie and Michael having lived fairly separate lives for years, George supposed this was really no surprise.

"You look better than the last time I saw you," George commented as Connie let her into the hall.

"I do feel it," Connie agreed, and led the way into the lounge where some soft music was playing. When they both had glasses of wine and were sitting at each end of the sofa, Connie said, "So, what do you need to know that I probably don't want to tell you?"

"What sort of reception have you received from your colleagues?"

"Most of them are happy to have me back," Connie told her a little wearily. "Why, who shouldn't have been?"

"I found out yesterday who the prosecution witnesses are going to be."

"Go on then, which one of them is stabbing me in the back?"

"Will Curtis, which I suppose isn't any surprise, and Diane Lloyd, who I know absolutely nothing about."

"Ouch!" Connie said whilst reaching for a cigarette. "Before we deal with those two, who else does the prosecution have lined up?"

"Well, as the person who did the original post-mortem has retired, they have Dr. Harry Cunningham who did the second, plus Detective Inspector Archer, the female officer who arrested you."

"They are understandable, I suppose," Connie concluded, before taking a long drag.

"So," George said, whilst lighting her own cigarette. "Before we get onto the lovely Mr. Curtis, why might Ms Lloyd want to have you removed?"

"She's in love with Ric," Connie told her succinctly. "And has been ever since she almost married him when she was in med school. In spite of being currently married to Owen Davis, our head of Obstetrics and Gynaecology, she knows that with Ric is where she would like to be. The main reason that she isn't with Ric, is because she couldn't deal with the serious gambling habit he used to have. The day you and I had the row to end all rows, I asked Ric if he'd ever done anything that in the heat of the moment felt great but afterwards turned out to be something he deeply regretted, and he told me about a time when he'd borrowed Diane's credit card, supposedly to buy some champagne for the staff on Darwin and Keller on New Year's Eve, and immediately used it in an online casino. I guess she's never forgiven him for it."

"Did it really used to be that bad for him?" George asked, feeling an enormous wave of sympathy for Ric.

"Apparently so," Connie said thoughtfully. "He came off the wagon a couple of weeks before Jo Mills overdosed, but thankfully for only a day or two."

"That infamous night seems to have well and truly done the rounds," George replied dryly. "And she really wouldn't want quite so many people to know about it."

"No, neither would I if I'd done something similar," Agreed Connie.

"Don't even think about it!" George told her firmly, just for a second revealing how much fear this thought caused her.

"If it hasn't crossed my mind since I was arrested," Connie said, trying to reassure her, "I doubt it ever will."

"Connie, I will only believe such a theory once this entire mess is over," George said quietly, knowing from her own experience how tempting such an option could be in the worst of times.

After refilling their glasses, Connie asked,

"So, what do you want to know about will?"

"Well, for a start, have you ever slept with him?"

"Not so you'd notice," Connie replied, feeling a little uncomfortable as she remembered the exact circumstances of her capturing of Will's attentions.

"Connie, is that a yes or a no?" George asked, a slight smile on her face.

"It's a not quite," Connie told her. "It was at Ric's fiftieth birthday party. From my very first day at St. Mary's, which was only a couple of months before Ric's party, Will had loathed my very existence. He hated the fact that a woman was in a superior position to him. He assumed that because I was a woman, I couldn't possibly teach him anything. You know all about what happened with that Battista operation I did on my first day. Anyway, because Will wound me up, I made it my mission to seduce him. Yes, he is a married man, and no I shouldn't have done it, but when has that ever prevented me from doing anything. Anyway, at Ric's party, will gave in. So, when he finally had his hands where I know he'd been wanting to put them for weeks, I told him that I'd just wanted to prove I could have him. If it makes you despise me a little less, I do cringe every time I think of that night."

"I can tell you without any doubt that Brian Cantwell will get maximum enjoyment out of using that in court," George told her honestly. "Does Ric know about that?"

"I don't think so. I'm getting the feeling that he's about to learn far more than he ever bargained for," Connie said miserably.

"Would you consider putting him in the picture about some of it beforehand?" George suggested quietly.

"God no," Connie replied with a shudder. "Tell Ric face to face that I used to be a prostitute, that'll really go down well.."

"Connie," George asked her tentatively. "Would it be worth my asking why you did that?"

"No, it wouldn't," Connie replied stonily, all her barriers falling instantly back into place. "You really don't want to know, believe me."

After quite a long silence, George reached out and briefly touched Connie's hand.

"I'm sorry," She said, wishing that she hadn't had to probe into what was obviously the darkest area of Connie's life.

"It's all right," Connie assured her. "It's just that there are some things from my past that I don't think even you could willingly ever drag out of me."

"We all have skeletons, Connie," George told her. "And they really do come in all shapes and sizes."

"I know," Connie agreed with her. "But if Ric ever finds out about some of mine, he won't even want to look at me again, never mind sleep with me."

"Am I right in thinking that you use sex in the same way that John does?" George asked, though not really needing Connie's answer.

"Why, does John also use it as his main form of communication?"

"He always has," George told her. "And he probably always will."

"Sometimes it's an awful lot easier than talking," Connie replied gloomily.

"Simple, honest affection and comfort, doesn't always have to be paid for," George told her quietly, openly looking deep into Connie's violet eyes.

"Really," Connie replied a little mockingly. "So if I asked you for a cuddle, you'd give it to me without wanting anything in return, would you?" completely calling Connie's bluff, George moved along the sofa and put her arms around this beautiful, brittle, utterly complex woman, feeling the tension singing throughout Connie's muscles. Gradually relaxing, inch by mind-blowing inch, Connie eventually brought her own arms up to go around George's smaller frame.

"I suppose that answers my question," She said a good while later, her cheek gently touching George's.

"And I thought you preferred the philosophy of actions speak louder than words," George said quietly, her lips turning up into a soft unguarded smile. Holding George so close, Connie could feel the jutting prominence of her shoulder blades, and the small, firmness of George's breasts, the false one and the real one, nestling against her own.

"You do know you're playing with fire, don't you?" Connie said into their contented tranquillity.

"Oh yes," George replied, her voice deepening slightly. "As I was reliably informed last weekend, as though I didn't know already."

"And just who was it who enlightened you as to this enchanting little piece of wisdom?" Connie asked with a soft laugh.

"It was John," George told her. "Who else?"

"It might have been Karen," Connie mused thoughtfully. "She's either kept an eye on you herself, or had it done for her, every single time you've visited Larkhall."

"She's always been a little overprotective," George replied fondly.

"She still loves you," Connie told her succinctly. "You can see it, every time she looks at you."

"And a part of me will always love her," George replied, knowing this to be true. "I wouldn't know just how good being close to a woman can make me feel if it wasn't for Karen."

"And how would you feel about letting me in on the secret?" Connie asked, her voice playful but her eyes deadly serious.

"That's up to you," George told her, knowing that she absolutely should not be doing this, but being entirely unable to stop now. Drawing slightly back from her, Connie thoughtfully examined George's face, seeing the slight flutter of George's long eyelashes as she watched Connie in return, and the full graceful lips that were calling to Connie's like a magnet.

When Connie slowly closed the gap between them, covering George's mouth with hers, it felt to both of them as though they had finally found what they had been searching for, as though they'd both finally connected with the one person who needed no explanations, no written directions to find the other's soul. Their lips were so soft, so silky, so pliable, that but for the want of air, they could have carried on doing this for hours. When George tentatively traced Connie's lips with her tongue, Connie held George even closer, returning the favour without any further prompting. Connie found kissing George to be so sexy, so sensual, that her mind began wandering to other, even more delightful possibilities. But when Connie eventually drew back from George and said,

"Would you like to stay?" George's eyes rapidly moved from one thing to another, while she settled on how to phrase what she wanted to say.

"No, not tonight," She finally replied, her eyes finally resting back on Connie's. "I'm sorry," She said, feeling thoroughly stupid.

"It's okay," Connie told her, running a finger over the back of George's hand.

"I, erm, I need some time to get my head around the thought of you seeing my less than desirable body," George said quietly, unable to meet Connie's penetrating gaze. But when George did look up to see Connie's reaction, she saw to her consternation that there were tears swimming in Connie's eyes.

"Sweetheart," Connie said softly, taking George's hands in hers. "I have seen it. I was there when Ric created that scar."

"And you were seeing it as a doctor, not as a lover," George told her. "And, with the situation as it currently is, I need to reconcile what I feel for you with my professional conscience."

"I know," Connie told her, thoroughly understanding George's dilemma. "It'd be the same as me sleeping with one of my patients, which I haven't as yet done." But when George left not too long after, they both knew that eventually the time would come, when both George's conscience and her fear of a beautiful woman, would be turned away from the growing familiarity and closeness that might one day lead to so much more.


	52. Chapter 52

Part Fifty Two

Late on the Sunday morning, as George peeled the potatoes for the lunch she was cooking for John, her father and Charlie, George moved in something of a daze. She had slept particularly poorly, her mind conjuring up images of what she and Connie might have done if she'd stayed, followed by the sound of both John and her father telling her she was wrong to be even thinking about it. But try as she might, George couldn't escape the memory of Connie's lips on hers. Part of her wished that she could have put aside all her reservations and made love to Connie last night, whilst another part of her relished in the anticipation of what may happen at some future date. She knew very well that even considering getting to know Connie on a physically and emotionally intimate level was professionally unwise to say the least, but it wasn't something that she felt she could honestly prevent. George knew that she had a deep-seated need to get to know Connie, really know her, to understand every little detail that made her the woman she was. George wasn't naïve, she knew that there was an awful lot about Connie's life and especially her past that she didn't know, but that would only come with time and with a hell of a lot of trust. It wasn't as though George didn't have an array of skeletons of her own, from the disaster that was Charlie's early childhood, to the most shameful thing she liked in bed. Would she ever tell Connie about her particular line in skeletons, well, she supposed anything was possible.

When her father arrived at about half past twelve, the potatoes were boiling before being put in the oven to roast, and the joint of beef was coming along nicely.

"You look tired," Joe Channing said as he moved into the hall.

"Nice to see you too, Daddy," George responded with a shrug. "It's been a hard week." After fondly kissing her cheek, he took her by the shoulders and thoroughly scrutinized her.

"You also look as though a decent meal wouldn't exactly go amiss."

"Will you please not do that?" George demanded hotly.

"What?" Joe asked, purposefully misunderstanding her.

"Look me over as though I was a race horse that you were considering putting fifty quid on." Joe laughed, his deep, smoke-laden rumble making her smile in spite of herself. Following her into the kitchen, Joe watched her as she drained the potatoes, putting them in a roasting tin with butter and salt before sliding the tray into the oven. They remained on relatively safe topics of conversation, until George having poured them both a drink, they moved into the lounge, George taking her usual seat at the end of the sofa and Joe taking the deep armchair by the fire.

"Daddy," George said tentatively, taking a sip of her Martini and lighting a cigarette. "There's something I'd like to ask you."

"Ask away," Joe invited expansively, not having the remotest idea of what was coming.

"Back in the days when you were a barrister, did you, erm, did you ever become, involved with a client?" Joe had been about to take a sip of his Scotch, but held the glass suspended in mid air as he stared over at her.

"No, certainly not," he told her firmly.

"Can I ask why?" George continued, determined to follow this through now she'd started.

"Because becoming emotionally or god forbid sexually involved with a client is undoubtedly, indisputably wrong!" He told her without any hesitation whatsoever. "You have a duty of care to a client, which is the consideration that should remain uppermost in your mind throughout your entire relationship with them. If you allow any kind of entanglement to cloud your professional judgment, you run the risk of being made a fool, if and when they are found guilty, and of possibly being unable to give them unpalatable pieces of bad news. Now, why not tell me why you asked such a question."

"Daddy, you've made your opinion perfectly clear," George replied miserably. "Why on earth would I want to shatter even more of your illusions about me?"

"Because," Joe told her quietly. "I would like to know precisely what you are getting yourself into, so that as your father, I can hopefully dissuade you from such a destructive course as professional misconduct."

"But it doesn't feel like professional misconduct," George tried to explain.

"But that is precisely how you must see it," Joe tried to convince her. "Dare I ask, how far this, attachment has actually progressed?"

"Not all that far," She replied, not meeting his gaze.

"Which tells me nothing," Joe concluded. "Have you actually been to bed with him?" The utter incongruity of Connie being thought of as a man almost made George laugh.

"No," She reassured her father. "Not as yet."

"Then please, for the sake of my sanity and your professional reputation, make sure you keep it that way." When the doorbell rang, George got up from the sofa in relief.

"Don't mention this in front of Charlie," She said, going into the hall.

"So John knows about it?" Joe called after her.

"Yes, in a manner of speaking, and he's given me a fairly similar speech to yours."

"Well it's not as though he can talk," Joe said disgustedly, but quietly pleased that John was trying to help George to avoid a problem that had nearly flattened John's career from the very beginning.

Keeping to his word, Joe didn't give so much as a mention of George's situation throughout the meal George had cooked for them. John, Joe and Charlie all had healthy appetites, and the homemade Yorkshire pudding that George had made to go with the roast beef was demolished by the three of them. John had noticed that George wasn't eating an awful lot, but this was hardly new. He thought she looked tired, on edge, as though something was constantly niggling away in her mind. But it was when George had served the apple crumble she'd made, that Charlie unknowingly rocked the balance of the afternoon.

"So, how's the Connie Beauchamp case going, Mum?" Connie not having been far from her thoughts all day, George dropped her spoon with a clang, the small portion of apple crumble in her bowl being totally forgotten.

"It's going fine, thank you, Charlie," George replied, her polite response betraying her inner turmoil.

"I didn't know that you were defending that case," Joe Channing said, watching his daughter thoughtfully.

"Oh, didn't I tell you?" George said, knowing full well that she hadn't.

"No, you didn't," Joe told her firmly. "And why on earth, would you defend someone whom, by all accounts, you so ruthlessly interrogated in court last February?"

"Opinions can be subsequently altered, Daddy," George replied quietly.

"Not usually where you're concerned, Mum," Charlie put in, making George temporarily want to throttle her daughter. Staring at George across the table, as the thoughts began gradually swirling in his mind, Joe Channing realised just what it was that George wasn't telling him. Seeing that Joe was holding his spoon so tightly that his knuckles were turning white, Charlie said, "Granddad, are you all right?"

"He's fine, Charlie," George told her a little bitterly. "He's just discovered that his one and only daughter is entirely capable of disappointing him almost beyond belief."

"Will you stop talking through me in riddles as though I'm still six years old?" Charlie demanded caustically.

"Charlie," John said, trying to break up the argument before it began. "I think you and I will take Mimi for a walk."

"But Dad…" Charlie tried to protest.

"Now, Charlie," John insisted, getting up from the table and gesturing to Charlie to do the same.

When John and Charlie had left, George and her father sat staring at each other, both of them waiting for the other to speak. Eventually, it was George who broke the silence.

"What do you want me to say?"

"I would like you to tell me that you aren't pursuing a relationship with Connie Beauchamp," Her father replied sombrely.

"And I can't really do that," George told him regretfully.

"So why did you allow me to think that it was a man you were contemplating committing professional misconduct for?"

"Isn't that blindingly obvious?" George demanded scornfully. "It would have been far easier for you to think it was a man. We are both well aware that you think Karen was just a fling, a phase, something I needed to explore and get out of my system, but she wasn't just something I could try for a while and then forget about."

"But that's what I don't understand," Joe told her tiredly. "There was never any hint of this…" He paused, trying to think of a way to express what he meant. "This type of attraction when you were younger."

"And just how do you know that?" George demanded hotly.

"Well, you married John for a start, and you were hardly out of university."

"I married John because I loved him," George told him, the utter sincerity in her voice touching him deeply. "I always have loved John, and no matter how much he might have the ability to emotionally hurt me, and to make me blisteringly angry at times, I always will love him, nothing will ever change that. But there is another part of me that finds the occasional woman extremely, compelling, for want of a better word. Karen was one of them, and Connie Beauchamp is another. Is that really so difficult for you to understand?"

"Yes," Joe told her firmly. "Professional liabilities aside, I don't understand why you feel the need to do this."

"It's not that you don't understand," George replied miserably. "It's that you don't want to understand."

"And why should I?" Joe demanded bitterly. "Why should I want to understand what makes my daughter seek something that she can't achieve within a normal, stable, uncomplicated relationship. From where I'm standing, it looks as though you are determined to have your cake and eat it." Given that George had barely touched her apple crumble, this seemed to her to be particularly ironic.

"Oh, so it's perfectly acceptable for John to screw his way around the legal profession, to satisfy every whim that takes his fancy, to acquire so many notches that it takes an entire four-poster bed to accommodate them?"

"Do you have to talk like that?" Joe threw back at her, loathing it when her arguments became crude in nature.

"I could have made it sound an awful lot worse, believe me. The point is, why is it acceptable for John to behave as he occasionally still does, but not for me to express something in my personality that I certainly didn't ask for? And don't you dare tell me that it's because I'm a woman."

"It is because you are a woman, and because you are my daughter," Joe replied sternly. "I expect at least a modicum of decorum from you, in the way you handle yourself, because that is how your mother and I brought you up. I do not expect you to sleep with a client, and I certainly don't expect you to keep on pandering to your abnormal desire for intimate contact with another woman." Staring at him in stunned amazement, George couldn't quite believe what she was hearing. Her father, her daddy, was forbidding her to live in a particular way, because he thought it was abnormal, and he didn't even know anything about the three-way relationship she had been living for over a year now with John and Jo. Thinking that there was little point in remaining, as he had nothing left to say to his daughter on this occasion, Joe Channing got up from the table and quietly walked out of the front door, getting into his car and slowly driving away.

As John and Charlie walked towards the park, Mimi's lead dangling from John's left hand, Charlie asked,

"What did I say?"

"Nothing," John told her, momentarily coming out of his introspection.

"Yeah, right," Charlie replied disgustedly. "Dad, I obviously caused a disagreement between Mum and Granddad, though quite how is beyond me."

"Charlie," John said, trying to work out how he should say this. "All you did was to unknowingly spell something out to Joe that George really didn't want him to know."

"You're not making an ounce of sense, Dad," Charlie told him fondly. "All I did was to ask Mum how her case was going." Then Charlie stopped, a couple of thoughts suddenly occurring to her. Walking to the entrance to the park, John let Mimi off her lead and waited for Charlie to join him. "Dad, is Mum sleeping with Connie Beauchamp?" The question shouldn't really have surprised him, John thought to himself, but he did at times wish that his daughter hadn't inherited quite so much of her parents' intelligence.

"Not that I'm aware of, Charlie, no," he told her, realising that this was in fact true, he didn't know if George had slept with Connie, though considering that it was barely a week since Connie had come out of prison, he very much doubted it.

"That's not strictly true, is it, Dad," Charlie said knowingly.

"This isn't something that I am prepared to get into with you," John told her quietly. "It's also not something that your mother would want you to be concerned with."

"Is that a polite way of saying that it's none of my business?" Charlie asked with a slight smile.

"Something like that," John admitted with a shrug.

"Did Granddad even know that she was, well, that she liked women?"

"Yes, he knew, but he doesn't know about Jo Mills, and for all concerned, it really needs to stay that way."

"So there was someone else, before Jo?" Charlie asked, her eyebrows rising at this new information.

"Please don't go there, Charlie," John said wearily. "You have never asked me to justify my choice of sexual partners, so I am now asking that you allow your mother the same amount of privacy." As John and Charlie made their way across the park to join Yvonne who was sitting on a bench smoking a cigarette, Charlie reflected that her father did in fact have a point. She had always accepted his endless string of flings with various women as just part of his life, so why should she be remotely inquisitive about her mother's personal life? After all, knowing her mother in the way that she did, Charlie knew that George would never be as indiscrete and stupid as her father was still capable of being.


	53. Chapter 53

Part fifty Three

On the Tuesday morning, when she thought that Tom would probably be out of theatre, George drove over to St. Mary's. Not only did she wish to ask Tom to appear as a character witness for Connie, but she thought that it was about time they cleared the air about Jo. She wasn't really angry with Tom, if she ever had been, but had given him a piece of her mind, purely because she had been presented with the sight of him without any warning. George knew that she hadn't handled that meeting very well, and she wanted to apologise to him for her outburst. Tom Campbell-Gore was the best witness she could think of to stand in Connie's defence, because he was one of Connie's colleagues who held the same level of seniority as she did, and he hadn't had any kind of sexual relationship with Connie that could be questioned in court by Brian Cantwell. George was perfectly well aware that Cantwell would use any possible lever to suggest that Tom's evidence was in any way biased.

When she walked out of the lift and towards the nurses' station on Darwin Ward, she saw Tom standing at the desk, writing in a patient's file. Walking up to him, she waited for him to finish writing before saying,

"Tom, do you have a moment?" Turning to look at her and masking his surprise, he said,

"Sure, come this way." Leading her to his cluttered office, he closed the door, gesturing to her to take a seat. "What can I do for you?" He asked, sitting down behind his desk.

"Before I ask what I came to ask," George began, "I need to apologise for how I spoke to you a couple of weeks ago."

"There really isn't any need for this, George," He told her with a soft smile.

"No matter how hurt I may initially have been about this, thing, between you and Jo, I shouldn't have said what I did."

"Okay, apology accepted," Tom said to her, realising that she needed to do this, whether or not he thought it was actually necessary. "So, what did you really come here for?"

"I'd like to ask you to be a character witness for Connie's defence. I need someone who is well acquainted with her on a purely professional level."

"No problem," tom told her with a smile. "Anything to make sure Connie can keep on saving lives in theatre. There's only one surgeon I can think of who possibly has more skill with a scalpel than Connie does, and he hasn't worked here for about four years."

"Who was it?" George asked, thinking of getting Tom to say something like this in court.

"Anton Meyer, a Hungarian. Seeing him work, it was like giving Brahms or Beethoven a scalpel. Connie will easily be as good as him in a few years time. She's almost there already."

"I might ask you to repeat that when you're on the stand," She told him. "It'll certainly get the jury thinking." Tom was about to reply, when there was a brief knock on his door, which was then hurriedly opened by Donna.

"Tom, Mr. Jakes, bay one bed four. He's arrested." Tom was out of his chair and down the corridor quicker than George would have thought possible. George followed him at a slower pace, to find that Connie was already there, removing a defibrillator from the crash trolley, whilst two nurses were performing CPR. When Tom joined them, he immediately demanded a drug that George couldn't afterwards remember the name of, which was handed to him in a syringe by the nurse who had come to fetch him. George stood well back, watching Tom, Connie and the three nurses as they alternated between cardiac massage and shocking the patient's heart, until he began breathing for himself again.

"I want fifteen minute obs on him for the next four hours," Connie told the nurses as they packed away the defibrillator, "And let myself or Mr. Campbell-Gore know if there is any change in his condition, any change whatsoever."

"You wouldn't think she'd ever been away, would you," Chrissie commented as Connie turned away from the bed, only to break into a broad smile as she found George watching her.

"This is a nice surprise," Connie said, walking up to George and resisting the urge to give her a kiss in greeting. "Did you want to see me?"

"I actually came to see tom, but I think I've just had a flash of inspiration."

"Sounds interesting," Connie said, leading the way to her office. "Should I be concerned?"

"If I'm successful in getting it approved, it should have a very positive effect on the jury."

"Now I'm really intrigued," Connie replied with a slight smirk.

"I think it would be a good idea, if one of your trial judges, whether that be Jo or John, were to spend a day shadowing you, seeing how you interact with your colleagues, observing just how talented you are both in the operating theatre and on the ward."

"It's certainly novel," Connie replied, taking a seat on her leather sofa beside George. "Do you think they'd agree to it?"

"John and Jo aren't the problem with this proposition. It's the prosecution, namely Brian Cantwell that we need to worry about. But I'll get them all together as soon as possible to discuss it. In fact, they're all in court together today, so no time like the present." Connie regarded her thoughtfully.

"What did you come to see Tom about?"

"I've asked him to stand for you as a professional character witness."

"And did he agree?" Connie asked, slightly surprised.

"Of course he did," George reassured her. "There really are people who want to support you through this, you know."

"That takes a bit of a stretch of the imagination sometimes," Connie said with a slight grimace.

"How's it going with Ric?" George asked, unknowingly hitting on at least part of the problem.

"Er, okay," Connie replied noncommittally.

"Connie, you might want to be a little more convincing if you actually want me to believe you," George told her quietly.

"It's nothing that won't sort itself out," Connie said a little evasively. Then, at George's raised eyebrow she elaborated. "I tried to seduce him, thinking that it might put any relationship we do have back onto its former footing, and he refused, saying a few things that did need to be said but which I didn't want to hear, and I responded with my usual line in caustic rejoinders. But like I said, it'll sort itself out eventually."

"Did this happen on Saturday?" George asked, fairly certain of what the answer would be.

"Yes, it did," Connie replied without thinking. Then, as what George was really asking caught up with her, she reached out to touch George's hand and said, "Hey, please don't think that that's why I…" She stopped, not really knowing how to describe what had happened between them on Saturday.

"Why you were looking for something along those lines with me," George finished for her.

"Yes," Connie agreed.

"And it wasn't?" George asked, suddenly needing to know the answer to this question above everything else.

"God, no," Connie reassured her. "George, ever since that first day, when you crucified me so ruthlessly in court, I've wanted to know more about you. As crazy as it sounds, from that round of questioning that I will never forget in a million years, you have got under my skin on a level that I never previously knew existed. There's something in your personality, in your voice, and yes, in that beautiful body that you appear to be no longer aware of, that since the very beginning, has made me question everything I thought I knew about myself. Ever since I was arrested, you've made me open up to and acknowledge things that I haven't really thought about for years. So believe it or not, I would have somehow found a way to explore what may or may not be possible between us, no matter who else I might be involved with." George stared at her in stunned silence. She'd had no idea that Connie's interest in her had gone so far back. So, the connection she felt with Connie wasn't in her imagination, it wasn't something she believed because she wanted it so badly, it was there, it existed, and certainly wasn't something to be ignored.

"I don't know what to say," George said eventually.

"You said on Saturday that you wanted time," Connie reminded her with a soft smile. "So I don't expect you to say anything because you need to take that time. Just know that I am here, if and when you come to a decision."

When George was on her way to the Old Bailey, she rang Coop and asked her to gather John, Jo and Brian Cantwell in John's chambers during the adjournment. John had mentioned at the weekend that the first four days of this week would be taken up with the end of a trial involving Cantwell for the defence and Jo for the prosecution. Jo would be going to a conference on the Friday for a few days, so George thought that she might as well strike while the iron was hot with her idea. She was well aware that she was going to have a battle on her hands with Cantwell over the prospect of either Jo or John shadowing Connie for a day, but she thought she was prepared for it. When she arrived at the court at a quarter to one, she couldn't help but smile when she saw that Jo was standing on the steps with a cigarette in her hand. As she got out of her car and walked towards Jo, it dawned on George that she hadn't actually spoken to Jo since Jo had told her and John about her affair with Tom. Well, perhaps now was a good time to put in some of the ground work to sorting things out with Jo.

"I thought I might find you here," George said as she mounted the steps to stand beside Jo.

"This is all very mysterious," Jo said after taking a drag of her cigarette. "John simply announced at the adjournment that he wished for us to join him in his chambers, where you would be meeting us to discuss the Connie Beauchamp case."

"Well, I've had a rather novel idea, and I need Brian's permission and yours and John's co-operation to put it into practice." When George had lit herself a cigarette, she asked, "How are you?"

"Oh, all right," Jo replied evasively. "What about you?"

"Apart from being swamped by work and arguing with Daddy, I'm okay."

"You look tired," Jo observed quietly.

"So would you be if you were working on this case," George told her with a smile. "But I wouldn't change a thing."

"It'll be interesting watching you in action from John's usual chair."

"Jo, I can't pretend that I'm delighted at your proposed position for this trial."

"I'm sure John will keep me in line," Jo replied, a bit hurt that George trusted her so little.

When they appeared in John's chambers, Brian Cantwell was already there.

"I see that nicotine is still taking precedence over time management," John said with a smirk as they sat down.

"And would you expect anything else from either of us?" George quipped back.

"No, not at all," John replied. "So, to what do we all owe this unexpected pleasure?"

"I have a novel idea that I want to put to you all. When I went to St. Mary's this morning to ask one of Connie's colleagues to stand as character witness, I observed her in the process of saving someone's life, someone who had gone into cardiac arrest. I think it would be beneficial to the jury, for one of Connie's trial judges, to submit a written statement, after spending a day with her in her working environment. Whichever one of you it is, would be able to inform the jury as to her capability to remain focussed and competent in her profession as a cardiothoracic consultant, as well as the way she handles operations, emergencies and endless ward rounds, and the way she deals with her colleagues. I feel that if one of her trial judges were to do this, it would provide the jury with a truly unbiased opinion, as to the positive impact she undoubtedly has on the lives of people she saves and improves on a daily basis." Total and utter silence met her explanation.

"Novel is definitely the word," Brian Cantwell eventually commented. "However, I don't personally think it will sway the jury one iota, therefore I have no problem in this going ahead."

"That's as good a reason as any, I suppose," George told him dryly, though privately thinking that it would do Connie's case all the good in the world.

"I don't agree," Jo put in. "If she did kill her patient, this will be seen as a pathetic attempt to distract the jury from her guilt."

"And if she isn't guilty," Countered John, "Then it will show the jury precisely what the NHS would be losing."

"You're assuming that she's innocent before we even have a trial date," Jo reacted scornfully.

"And you're assuming she's guilty," John threw back. "Which believe me is far worse."

"Neither of you is assuming anything," George cut in. "But Jo, if you want to err on the side of caution, why don't you spend a day with Connie?"

"You seriously expect me to spend an entire day with that woman?" Jo demanded bitterly. "Forget it."

"Fine, I'll do it," John put in before Jo could say any more, because he thought he could see where she was heading.

"And you're certainly not doing it," Jo told him scornfully. "You've slept with her. If anyone's going to be biased in favour of Connie Beauchamp it's you." There was a long, awful pause, whilst all three of them sat and stared at Jo. John was flabbergasted that Jo had said something quite so detrimental to his career in front of the likes of Brian Cantwell, George was about ready to knock some common sense into Jo, and Cantwell simply sat there and smiled.

"Well well, Mrs. Mills, the things you do come out with, I must say they are illuminating." George cleared her throat.

"You don't need to take this any further, Brian."

"You must be joking," Cantwell sneered at her. "This information is like gold dust."

"And just what would going public about this really solve?" George demanded acidly.

"It would get Mr. Justice Deed and Mrs. Mills off the bench and out of my hair. What more is there to it?" Getting up from her chair, George walked over to him and gripped the knot of his tie.

"You do, and I'll make sure you lose this case by any means possible," She threatened him. "After all, I hear that Neil Haughton is leaning on everyone in the vicinity of this case to have Connie Beauchamp put away for life, and let's not forget, I know far too many of his weak points for him to be comfortable with. Do you really want his ire coming down on you because you decided to rock the boat?"

"George, after the things I have recently learnt about your client," He almost spat the words at her, "You're in no position to make threats like that. Has she told you all the very interesting details of her extraordinarily seedy past? Or are you witless enough to think that she is the ministering angel at work for the National Health Service?"

"Believe me," George taunted him. "There isn't anything you could tell me about Connie that I don't already know."

"Really? Well, we'll see, won't we." Getting up and brushing passed her, he walked out of the door, a smug smile on his face that George wouldn't soon forget.

When Brian had gone, George walked smartly over to stand in front of Jo.

"Just how stupid are you?" She demanded caustically. "Do you really have to fuck up this case from the word go, and that's before we get onto the subject of John's career?"

"Don't speak to me like that," Jo told her bitterly. "Or I might have to exercise my authority when I am on the bench, and bang you up for contempt, and let's not forget that it would be your fourth time. Do you want to find out what Larkhall is like from the inside?" George's right hand twitched. Oh how she would love to slap Jo's face for her, but she just about managed to contain the urge.

"Do you even care," She asked Jo scornfully. "That you might just have put into action the end to John's career?"

"Leave it, George," John said, wanting to curtail this argument before it got started.

"John, do us all a favour and get out for five minutes," George told him firmly. "Jo and I have things to say to each other that believe me, you really don't want to hear."

"These are my chambers," John reminded her sternly.

"So, go and do something useful. I suggest that you go and explain to Monty precisely what has happened, and get him on side before someone else does." Seeing the sense in her suggestion, John stood up and walked out, hoping that there wouldn't actually be blood on the walls when he returned.

"How could you!" George shouted when he had gone. "How could you say something quite so fucking stupid in front of Cantwell of all people?"

"I didn't mean to say it, George," Jo protested, feeling the full force of George's wrath.

"Oh, and that's supposed to make it all better, is it. You didn't mean it, well, that's all right then, isn't it. Have you forgotten how John lied for you with the Professional conduct committee? Have you forgotten how he has encouraged and aided your career from the very beginning? Let's face it, if John hadn't lied for you with the PCC, you wouldn't still have a career!"

"So says the woman who used her maiden name for professional purposes, so that she could benefit from her father's professional reputation. You wouldn't even do that for John, would you? You couldn't even take his name in your first few years in the job, because it wouldn't have Daddy's influence attached to it!"

"Well, at least I didn't sleep my way into a profession by screwing my pupil master," George threw back. When Jo's hand connected loudly with George's cheek, George staggered slightly, only managing to prevent herself from falling by putting out a hand to steady herself on John's desk.

"Do you feel better for doing that?" She asked Jo almost tonelessly.

"George, I…"

"Don't you dare think of saying you're sorry," George virtually hissed at her. "But, oh no, I'd forgotten, sorry isn't a word you use very often, is it. If I were you, I'd make myself scarce." Knowing that there was nothing she could achieve by staying, Jo walked out of the door, hardly able to believe that she'd done that, and after all this time. There had been many occasions over the years when she had longed to slap George's face for her, but she hadn't ever given into the urge, always managing to restrain herself, but not this time it seemed. Jo told herself that George had gone way too far this time, saying things to her that were way too below the belt, even for George, but in her heart of hearts, she knew that this wasn't any kind of an excuse, and certainly not one to appease John, who would be looking for explanations as soon as he found out.

When Jo had gone, George sank bone weary onto the sofa. She didn't quite know what to think. Yes, she knew that she'd probably asked for it in what she'd said to Jo, but did inferring that Jo had achieved her barrister status in bed rather than at the bar really deserve a slapped face? She wasn't sure. When Coop entered the room, she stared in stunned amazement at the handprint on George's face.

"Did Mrs. Mills do that?" She asked in horror, hardly able to believe it.

"You wouldn't think she had it in her, would you," George replied with a mirthless laugh, realising that she was probably a little in shock at what Jo had done.

"Are you all right?" coop asked in concern.

"Oh, I'm fine," George said with a shrug. "I should go. I don't want John to see this."

"You don't want me to see what?" John asked, coming into the room in time to hear her last few words. Instantly, George turned her face so that her left cheek, the one with the handprint was against the back cushion of the sofa. She desperately didn't want John to see Jo's handiwork, but she couldn't think of a way of getting passed him without him seeing it.

"Mrs. Mills seems to have thought it necessary to slap her," Coop told him. John just stared at her. "I know," Coop continued. "I didn't want to believe it either."

"Yet both of you would have so easily believed it if it had been the other way round," George said dismally, realising this to be absolutely true.

"Show me," John quietly asked her, walking over to sit down beside her.

"Just remember," George told him firmly. "That I really did ask for it."

"No one asks for something like that," Coop murmured almost to herself.

"Could you leave us, please, Coop?" John asked her, wanting to minimise George's discomfort.

When Coop had gone, he gently turned George's face so that he could see the mark that would eventually form into a bruise on George's cheek.

"Why did she do this?" He asked her quietly.

"You know me and my big mouth," George told him with a shrug. "I said something that I know was entirely untrue, and this was how she reacted to it."

"What did you say that was so reprehensible?"

"I suggested that Jo became a barrister by sleeping with you, rather than by working for it." John winced. "Yes, I know, entirely wrong, completely uncalled for. A lot of hurtful things were said on both sides, though if I'm honest, mostly on mine, and this was the result."

"I don't care what either of you said," John astounded her by saying. "That doesn't excuse her from slapping you."

"Forget it, John, it's really not worth stewing over."

"Do you still want me to spend a day shadowing Connie?"

"Damned right I do," George told him firmly. "I'm not having the utter fiasco that was today without the result I was looking for. Besides, I think it might teach you something. I'll contact Connie and let you know the day and time."

"Friday would be good because this trial finishes on Thursday, barring any mishaps."

"Thank you for doing this, John. It's nice to know that someone has some faith in what I'm doing." Putting his arms round her, John briefly held her to him, wondering just how his world had managed to almost collapse in on itself in such a short time. First Brian Cantwell had found out about his sleeping with Connie, and would probably at some point today begin the process of his second suggested impeachment. Then Jo and George had had the worst verbal sparring match they'd had for years, after which Jo had slapped George's face. Where on earth would all this lead?


	54. Chapter 54

Part Fifty-Four

Bodybag's precipitate exit didn't go unnoticed, however smoothly Nikki escorted her from the premises. The sharp-eyed Julie Saunders noticed something about her downcast manner and the bags of belongings as they made her way out towards the courtyard. A wide grin spread across her face and she drew the obvious conclusion. As Julie Johnson pretended to fiddle around with the servery, she caught Nikki's eye, who gestured with a finger zipping her lips tight.

The following day, Nikki passed word for a meeting of prison officers in the PO room and made a short, sharp statement.

"I'm sorry to cut into your valuable time but I thought I'd let you know that Sylvia Hollamby has been suspended on full pay pending a full fact finding investigation into how one of our former prisoners, Connie Beauchamp, was seriously assaulted despite strict instructions by me. This has come down from the top. Above all else, I want all of you to be confident in your professionalism about the way you go about your duties as I suspect that one sniff of an internal enquiry gets people paranoid."

"It's OK, Nikki," Dominic said in relaxed tones. "We know what you're like when you're trying to be tactful and diplomatic." Nikki couldn't help grinning in reply.

"If you don't mind me asking you, Nikki, just who will head the investigation," Colin Hedges asked politely.

Nikki swiftly debated in her mind whether or not she should give an answer until a voice within her said to herself, why the hell not?

"It's no big secret. Neil Grayling will head the investigation. Obviously, he'll ask questions of all of us. It goes without question that he'll be straight with us so we'll be straight with him. As Sylvia's sudden departure will prompt questions amongst the prisoners so I don't see any reason to not tell anyone who asks that she's been suspended pending further enquiries but don't be drawn beyond that point. Julie Saunders saw me escorting Sylvia off the premises so word will have got around already."

A collective smile rippled round the gathering and any residual tension in the room promptly evaporated.

"That's all right then," Dominic said briefly. Nikki let a few moments pass by before closing the meeting. Everyone was drawing a discreet veil over Bodybag's existence.

"If no one has anything else to say, I'll let everyone get off to wherever they're supposed to be going. Yeah?"

Gina came out of the PO room with a distinct smirk on her face. She breathed in the air of freedom in realizing that her arch-enemy was due to end her days in her retirement caravan by the sea and no more having to deal with her bitching and moaning and worrying about her sloppy ways. The two Julies saw her strolling up and accosted her.

"You're in a good mood today, Miss. You've not won the National Lottery, have you?"

"There's no good being coy about the matter, Julie Saunders," Gina retorted good-naturedly. "I know very well that you're wondering what's happened to Sylvia Hollamby."

"Oh we know all ready. She's been sacked."

"Nearly right. She's been suspended pending an investigation. You know that things have to be done by the book. I don't mind you spreading the word about but no fairy stories, Julies."

"As if we would. You know us better than that," Julie Johnson said with the most innocent expression on her face and in her voice. Gina grinned and moved on.

On outdoor association, the Julies strolled around in the fresh air, arms linked so Denny immediately zeroed in and Bev and Phyl were not slow to get off the mark. They had developed built in radar antenna for fresh news and the Julies usually had the news first. The big grin on the Julies' faces was a dead giveaway.

"Guess what, Bodybag's been suspended over Connie being beaten up by Buxton."

Denny's face was split in two by a huge grin and did a quick pogo dance in the air with upraised fist clenched.

"That's absolutely wicked……."she started to say when her brow was furrowed over with a flicker of doubt. "You sure you're not being taken for a ride. I mean, it's too good to be true."

"Dead sure, mate. I saw Nikki escorting the old bag out the door with all her belongings. I went and asked Gina and those were her very words. I bet that if you ask any screw and they'll tell you the same. Nikki will have told them to tell us. Believe me now?"

The spreading smile on Denny's face was answer enough and, as word spread around the women on association, there was a cheery carnival mood. Dominic and Gina felt the tangible mood sweep across the courtyard and felt relaxed with not so much of the need to have eyes in the back of their head.

"You can hear the prisoners in mourning over Sylvia's departure," Dominic said which made Gina laugh loudly.

"We've been thinking about Connie Beauchamp and worrying how she'd been getting on with her being pregnant and everything. I," Julie Johnson added in her most tender sympathetic voice when they had walked onwards a couple of hundred yards.

"What about sending her a card?" Denny suggested. "There's a woman on the ones who might crutch it out."

"Don't need that, Denny. If we ask either Gina or Nikki, I'm sure they'll arrange delivery themselves. In fact, why not ask Gina now?" Julie Johnson asked.

"In for a penny, in for a pound," Julie Johnson muttered to herself. Gina did have her bad moods but then again, what was there to lose on such a special day like today?

Slashing her brightest smile, Julie walked up to Gina who was clearly in a good mood. She wasn't taking any chances so she resorted to her usual tactful manner.

"We was wondering that seeing how Connie was taken away ever so quick, we hadn't got the time to talk to her. We didn't want to bother her if she was poorly so we thought we'd send her a 'get well, best of luck' card from her mates on G wing."

"Sounds fine by me, Julies. If you give it to either me or Nikki, we'll make certain she'll get it. Your words sound good."

"Oh I don't know, it sounds common as rubbish," Julie Saunders answered, blushing.

"Take a tip from me. You write from the heart and Connie will get the message. Have faith in yourselves. You have our blessing," Gina said in her most reassuring tones. In fact, she had thought of doing something the same if it could be cleared officially but she knew better than to tell Julie Johnson as she had that curious diffidence about herself in not being educated.

"Oh right," Julie Johnson answered, perking up and joining her friends, a swagger in her walk.

In an evening's brainstorming session, they had the crudely coloured but highly personalized card written

'Dear Connie. I hope you are well, or as well as you can be. All the girls are thinking of you and you are right where you ought to be, in the fresh open air. We won't forget you, specially what you did for Buki and everything. You are dead classy and an inspiration.'

"I have spelt 'inspiration' right, have I?" Julie Johnson asked in a doubtful tone of voice, twirling the biro with the green spiky plastic toy on the end.

"Don't ask me," Denny said, shrugging her shoulders.

"It's the thought what counts," Julie Saunders said decisively. "Any road, she'll know it has come from us." The other women grinned agreement with the indisputable fact.

George made her way over to Nikki and Helen's comfortable flat and sank into the comfortable armchair with a sigh of satisfaction. Glad though they were to have George's company, they knew that there was a professional element, which caused them to be highly alert and attentive on George's words. She placed the cup of tea on the side table with a sigh of satisfaction.

"You know that there's a business element in my call which I thought I'd get over as soon as possible. I was wondering if you would give evidence in support of Connie as to her good character whilst she was in your care at Larkhall?"

"Sure, I have no problem with that." Nikki replied without a second's blink. "In fact, the Old Bailey is becoming my third home."

"Good," grinned George at the justly deserved witticism. "I know I can count on you."

There was a pause in the conversation as George was contemplating what to do or say next. So much was churning round in her mind. It was Helen who opened the floodgates as the warm, comfortable atmosphere was taking hold of George.

"So," Helen said, "how's life treating you in general."

George couldn't resist opening herself up to these two very understanding women. The words came pouring out.

"As you might expect from me, it's complicated. Do you know, I'm coming to think that I'm forever fated to live life that way. I had thought that this three way relationship between me, John and Jo would bring me nearest some sort of stable existence but this is obviously not meant to be."

"Not John again," Helen concluded, wrongly as it turned out.

"In another of life's little ironies, John is the completely innocent party in these present troubles and just to cap it, so am I. It's been Jo of all people who has broken the rules and started an affair with Tom Campbell-Gore. That has set the cat amongst the pigeons," George replied darkly.

"No," both women exclaimed. "Jo has always come over as the soul of righteousness," added Nikki.

"Sometimes, people can be really the opposite of what they appear to be. I'm sorry if I'm bringing my occupation back home. One of the many deadly sins of modern living."

"If that's all you've got to worry about, you are both lucky women. Put it another way, after all life's troubles, you're getting some luck that you both thoroughly deserve."

George's sincerity touched them, as did her unexpected ability to open up to them. By George's standards, this self-revelation was spectacular.

"Assuming that John knows all about this and he gets to know everything, I wonder how long it will take Jo to come back to him and you. From my experience feelings of jealousy, hurt and guilt in a simple two-way relationship are quite bad enough to handle," observed Nikki.

"Your guess is as good as mine and, don't forget, I live with them," George said in a very 'stiff upper lip' fashion. This deliberate lack of dramatics struck home how much George had on her plate, not forgetting the Connie Beauchamp case and all it entailed.


	55. Chapter 55

A/N: I had assistance from the European Journal of Cardiothoracics. ET tube, means Endo-trachial tube, the tube that helps someone under anaesthetic to breathe.

Part Fifty Five

On the Friday morning, John followed Connie's directions up to the fifth floor and Darwin ward with more than a little curiosity. Yes, it might initially have been George's idea that Connie's trial judge did see her in action, but he had to admit to a certain level of fascination at the prospect. He would be under her jurisdiction for a change, and bound therefore to submit to her authority, not something he was used to doing. Connie had told him to be there for eight thirty, to hopefully give her time to explain a few things to him before her day became too busy for in-depth verbal exchanges. All was hustle and bustle around him, nurses accompanying patients on trolleys, white coated figures shouting out things that made little sense to him, all encompassed by a general air of almost tangible pressure. As he approached the nurses' station between Keller and Darwin, he saw that Chrissie and Tricia were in the middle of a fairly raucous argument.

"Why you ever moved here I'll never know," Chrissie was saying venomously.

"It must have been to see your pretty face on a daily basis," Tricia replied. "It certainly wasn't for your sunny nature." Tricia had her back to John and was transferring several files from the desk to their rightful place in the ward office. Glancing up from the computer screen, Chrissie caught sight of John's approaching figure.

"Nurse Williams," She called to Tricia's retreating form. "Show Mr. Justice Deed where Connie's office is," And when she didn't immediately respond, added, "Now, please, or I'll ask him to bang you up for disobeying your superiors."

"You wouldn't do a thing like that, now would you, Judge?" Tricia said as she reappeared, now with a bright smile on her face.

"I have done the same to George, on no less than three occasions," John told her with a smile of his own. "So you never know."

"Oh, don't tell me," Chrissie said in miserable realisation. "You two know each other."

"In a manner of speaking," Tricia replied, moving out from behind the reception desk. "It's funny, you know," She said conspiratorially, leading the way down the corridor. "It's Nurse Williams when she's trying to assert her authority, and Mum when she wants something." John laughed.

"My daughter only ever refers to me as 'the Judge', when she's cross with me."

"How is George?" Tricia asked, having set up something of a rapport with George when she'd been in hospital.

"Oh, she's fine," John told her, having found this woman friendly and approachable from the first time he'd met her.

Connie's door was open, and she was sitting at the computer, answering the morning's first spate of e-mails.

"Come in," She called before either John or Tricia could announce their presence.

"The NHS must be financially profitable these days," John commented dryly, taking in the expensive surroundings of Connie's office.

"All personally funded, I can assure you," Connie replied, getting up from her desk and moving towards him. "Thanks Tricia," She added, nodding in her direction as she turned to leave. "Are you sure you're ready for this?" She asked when Tricia had gone.

"It'll be an experience I won't lightly forget," John told her honestly. "But I think I can handle it."

"Let's hope so," Connie said seriously, nowhere near as sure as he was. "The only thing I expect you to remember is to keep out of everyone's way. I appreciate it enormously that you are doing this, for whatever reason, but neither am I prepared to accommodate what barely amounts to a first year medical student. I will not apologise for anything you might see today, because you will see and hear things that may shock you. Medicine, and operating in particular, is not usually a particularly pleasant occupation, but you will simply have to get used to it. I will try to explain everything to you as and when it may be necessary, but I might not always have the time. Feel free to ask any questions of anyone, though I can't always promise you a polite response."

"All I want to see," John tried to reassure her. "Is you in your normal environment, and exhibiting your usual behaviour. If, as I suspect, this turns out to be nothing less than continual sniping with your colleagues, I am unlikely to be very surprised."

"My reputation precedes me," Connie said with a smirk. "That's good to know." But before she could continue this line of clear flirtation, Chrissie appeared in her doorway.

"Connie, sorry," She said, seeing that she'd obviously interrupted something. "Harry wants you in the ED."

"Does he now," Connie said with a smile. "The day just keeps on getting better. What does he want?"

"He's got an RTA with a chest trauma."

"Tell him I'm on my way," Connie said, moving towards the door and simply expecting John to follow her, which he did, feeling that he would be in her shadow for probably the entire day.

They took the lift down to the ground floor and made their way towards the casualty department. Walking familiarly into Resus, Connie said,

"What've we got?" In greeting.

"Female, thirty-three, RTA on the way to work," Harry told her. "GCS seven, BP ninety over forty, pulse 130. She has injuries to the abdomen and chest, possibly a ruptured spleen and cardiac tamponade."

"Sounds like you've done the diagnosis for me," Connie said dryly. "Let's get her into theatre right away. Is blood being cross matched?"

"As we speak," Charlie told her. "How much do you want sending up to theatre when they get the results?"

"Eight units to start with, and we'll see how we go." When Harry's eyes briefly strayed to where John was standing, Connie added, "Oh, don't worry, he's with me. Harry Harper, Mr. Justice Deed."

"This is your day for being under the spotlight, isn't it," Harry deduced.

"Looks like it," Connie said succinctly. "I'll take her from here," She said, as Charlie and another nurse she didn't recognise, began pushing the trolley towards the lift. Glancing back over her shoulder to make sure that John was with them, Connie followed.

When they reached the Darwin operating theatre, Connie began to scrub up, and they were soon joined by Will and Zubin.

"Ah, Mr. Justice Deed," Zubin said on seeing John. "Nice to have you with us."

"Isn't it just," Connie said with a smirk. "Professor Kahn, perhaps you could find the judge here some scrubs and a mask, as he will be observing us today. Oh, and page Ric, our patient requires his services as well."

"That's always the way with Connie," Zubin said conspiratorially, handing John the cover-alls that were worn by every person present within the sterile area. "Expects everyone to do about four things at once." John grinned as he pulled the scrubs over his clothes. "Don't worry," Zubin added, walking towards the main part of the theatre. "You'll get used to looking like a Martian by the end of today."

"Does someone mind telling me, just who we have accompanying our every move today?" Will asked, feeling distinctly left out.

"This, Mr. Curtis, is Mr. Justice Deed, the judge who will be sitting as a winger in my forthcoming trial. He is spending a day observing me in my usual working environment. John, this is Will Curtis, my registrar, and otherwise known as Lord Curtis Harding. You see, Will, Mr. Justice Deed earned his title of Lordship, whereas you fell into yours by an accident of birth. Now, shall we get on?" Leaving will in mid gape, Connie swept into theatre, John following on her heels, to stand as directed well out of the way.

As soon as the woman had been fully anaesthetised, Connie moved to the patient's left, and Will to the right. As Connie picked up a scalpel and began opening the woman's chest, Ric appeared through the doors.

"I hear we have a possible ruptured spleen that needs my attention," He said to the room at large.

"Something's making her abdomen extremely distended," Connie replied, not looking up.

"Hi Judge," Ric said as he moved to the table, standing to Connie's left, and running his hands over the upper abdomen. "Harry might just be right," Ric added, picking up his own scalpel and making the first incision. "I'm going to need some suction, and quickly please. There's a hell of a lot of blood in here." As the theatre sister moved to do his bidding, Will said,

"Perhaps the one real plus of working with Tom instead of you, Connie, is that even in an emergency, he always has some music on hand to keep us all focused."

"If you need music to keep you going, you shouldn't be here," Connie said curtly, but privately agreeing with him.

"So, what music would you recommend for theatre then, Judge?" Ric asked, having always used the name that was half way between respect and familiarity.

"Oh, he was playing Vivaldi, last time I saw him," Connie put in before John could answer.

"Tom only listens to classical when he's showing off," Zubin said reproachfully.

"I can be found listening to Black Sabbath, after a particularly difficult day in court," John told them.

"Finally someone with some taste," Ric said with clear approval.

"The only time I heard Tom listening to rock music in theatre," Zubin put in. "Was when he was trying to do heart surgery under local anaesthetic. The patient requested the heaviest rock he could find. Tom thought it would calm him down, and it patently failed."

"Which is why it should never have been attempted," Connie said, using the striker saw to make an opening in the woman's ribcage. "But then, Tom always has liked trying out anything resembling a weird and wacky procedure."

"You can talk," Will said disgustedly. "Look at that Batista that you performed on your very first day, and I hadn't even heard of it."

"Worked though, didn't it," Connie said triumphantly. "You were quite ready to right that woman off as a lost cause, I seem to remember, all because you didn't think a woman was up to the job of being your superior."

"You're never going to let me forget that, are you," Will said furiously, his face red under the mask.

"Not until you admit you were wrong, no. Now, perhaps we can make some room at the table, so that Mr. Justice Deed can see what we're up to." This wasn't a request, but an order, and everyone there knew it. "John, come and stand by Will," Connie invited, and when he had, she began explaining what she was doing to her thoroughly captive audience.

"This woman has several cracked ribs, one of which has punctured the outer membrane that surrounds the heart, causing what we call a cardiac tamponade. This membrane that protects the heart from the rest of the body, is called the pericardium. The broken rib has torn a hole in the pericardium, meaning that blood has collected inside the membrane, restricting the space that the heart has in which to beat. The ventricles don't have enough room to expand properly, meaning that blood isn't being pumped successfully around the body. Now, I can feel, that a blood clot has formed inside the pericardium, which needs to be removed immediately." Standing opposite Ric, John was fascinated. Never, not in all his entire career had he ever witnessed anything so captivating. Asking for a clean knife, Connie prepared to make a small incision in the pericardium, to evacuate the clot, as well as any blood that may have collected behind it. But as she delicately divided the membrane, removing the blood clot with a pair of forceps, the beating of the heart caused a fountain of freestanding blood to erupt from the chest cavity. As John swiftly backed away, the blood liberally splashed the front of Connie's scrubs.

"Oh, for fff..."

"Don't you dare even think of finishing that sentence," Zubin said in response to Connie's muttered approach to an expletive. Without needing to be asked, Will poised the suction nozzle to remove the blood from the open chest cavity, as Connie began cleaning out the blood from the pericardium, in preparation for sewing it up.

"Connie," Zubin said, sounding a little ominous. "Are you sure that's the only injury you've got there, because there's blood in her ET tube."

"Well, Mr. Curtis?" Connie demanded. "The left lung looks fine to me, so what about the right?"

"There's a very small tare," Will replied after closely examining the right lung.

"And you didn't notice before now?" Connie asked in amazement.

"You saw her in A and E, not me," He said curtly.

"For all of five seconds. Didn't it occur to you to take a look at the side of the patient nearest you?"

"If you'll give me a chance, I'll repair it," Will said hotly, not amused to be bawled out in front of his colleagues.

"No you won't, I'll do it myself," Connie told him. "Get back to the ward and try and do something useful for once."

"Are you kicking me out of theatre?" Will asked carefully.

"What does it look like? Yes, I am, now go, and Ric, will you please stop getting in my light."

"Connie, calm down," Zubin said quietly once Will had departed, receiving nothing but a glare in return. They worked in silence for a while, with Connie swiftly stitching the tare in the right lung, before returning to the repair of the pericardium, and with Ric removing part of and repairing the rest of the ruptured spleen. John stood on the right hand side of the table, watching Ric and Connie opposite him, working pretty much in silence, except for when either of them curtly demanded a new instrument.

"Connie," Ric said suddenly, something out of the ordinary catching his eye. "I think we've got a vaginal bleed going on down here." Halting in her tracks for a moment with the needle poised to sew up the pericardium, Connie moved round Ric to take a look.

"Yeah, you're right," She said. "All right, let's raise the lower half of the table, see if gravity can do anything, and Ric, see if you can reach down to feel the uterus. We need to know what's going on here." Still standing opposite Ric, John now witnessed the highly bizarre sight, of Ric's hand moving inside the woman's skin, gradually moving down through the contents of the abdomen.

"Yes, I know," Ric said, seeing John's slightly awed gaze. "It looks far weirder than it actually is. Aha," He said, clearly finding what he was looking for. "Oh, no," He added quietly. "The uterus is significantly enlarged, and I can definitely feel a baby in there."

"Get Owen down here immediately," Connie ordered Zubin. "How far along do you think it is?" She asked Ric.

"Four months?" Ric guessed. "Give or take a couple of weeks. I've pretty much finished here, apart from closing the skin, so I'll see if I can find a heartbeat, if someone will find me a sonic aid." As Connie began sewing the tare in the pericardium, Ric swiftly completed the stitching of the woman's abdomen, and commenced searching for the heartbeat of the foetus.

"I hear you've discovered a baby," Owen said as he swanned casually through the swing doors.

"About time," Connie replied curtly. "The amount of blood she's lost from the injuries we've managed to repair, she'll probably lose it at this rate."

"Let me be the judge of that," Owen replied calmly, Connie's jibes always bouncing off him. As he moved to the lower end of the table, he raised his eyes at John's presence.

"I don't think we've met," He said, wanting to know who this new incumbent was.

"Owen, this is Mr. Justice Deed. John, this is Owen Davis. Owen, this is the man who got me out of prison, and who, if I don't sort this mess out, will be sitting as a winger in my trial."

"Oh, I see," Owen accepted mildly, dismissing John's presence in favour of attending to the patient.

"I can't find a heartbeat," Ric said, handing the sonic aid over to Owen.

"That's because you need the magic touch," Owen said confidently. "Women and babies can be very temperamental."

"I couldn't have put it better myself," John said approvingly.

"However," Owen said seriously. "You couldn't find a heartbeat, because there isn't one to find. This baby's dead." There was a long, awful silence as they took in this indisputable fact, only broken by the regular beeps from the cardiac monitor.

"Are you sure?" Connie asked. "I mean, isn't there anything you can do?"

"I can't perform miracles, Connie, you know that," Owen said gently. "She's already five centimetres dilated," He said, after internally examining the patient. "So there's nothing to do now but wait for the baby to be expelled." Turning mutely back to the task in hand, Connie finished stitching the tare in the pericardium, fixed the ribs in place with sternal wires, and began suturing the layers of intercostal muscles.

"Ric, can you help me to get her legs up?" Owen asked, breaking into the quiet. Realising that he was in the way, John moved to stand against the wall, opposite the bottom of the table, it dawning on him a little too late, that he was about to have an almost perfect view of what was to come.

A little while later, as Connie was beginning the skin sutures, Owen broke into the silence with,

"Here it comes. If you've got any colloids left, Zubin, give them now, because she could lose a lot of blood along with the baby." Connie gripped the round bodied needle almost fiercely as she sewed, but even through her own determination not to feel anything, she could sense John's horror. John couldn't believe what he was seeing. Here, now, right in front of him, a woman was lying unconscious, and in the process of losing her baby. This just shouldn't be happening. He knew his feeling was completely irrational, but this knowledge didn't prevent him from wishing he could do anything to halt the inevitable.

"You might want to look away now, Judge," Ric said gently, obviously not the only one to feel John's discomfort.

"No one will think any less of you if you leave," Connie added quietly, heartily wishing that the same would be true, if she herself were to down tools and walk out. But John just couldn't, because as the realisation occurred to him, he knew that see the outcome of this he must. When Jo had gone through the trauma of her termination, something they'd very rarely ever talked about, she had seen her little baby, seen that it had been a boy. Jo had been about four months pregnant, just as this woman was now. He had to see this baby, he just knew he had to, because only then would he have an inkling of what Jo had really put herself through all those years ago. When the baby eventually slid out onto Owen's waiting hands, John felt as though he had forgotten to breathe. The baby was tiny, a perfectly formed miniature, barely more than six inches in length. Connie fixed her eyes unwaveringly on the stitches she was taking an age to sew, refusing to meet anyone's gaze. She sensed Zubin moving towards her, and felt him briefly give her shoulder a squeeze. Once the cord and placenta had also been removed, and Connie had completed her interminable sutures, they covered the woman up, and were about to have her wheeled into the recovery room, when Owen said,

"I think she should be transferred to maternity."

"Fine," Connie said as she began pulling off her gloves. "I'll come and see her later, and tell her about the baby."

"I can do that," Owen said, not wanting Connie to do this.

"Mr. Davis, I am perfectly capable of breaking some bad news," Connie said loftily.

"I don't doubt that for a second," Owen said reasonably. "Under normal circumstances."

"Are you telling me how to do my job?" Connie demanded, glaring at Owen where he stood across the table from her.

"Yes, in this case, I am," Owen replied without a hint of trepidation. "You shouldn't be doing this now."

"She was initially my patient, and I will continue to manage her case in the way I think fit. Is that clear?"

"Connie, you are in no fit state to deal with something like this. It's too soon." There voices had gradually risen, until they were virtually shouting at each other, their vehemently harsh tones resonating around the vaulted ceilinged room.

"Mr. Davis, do you want to still be in a job by the end of the day, or don't you?" Connie demanded furiously, the knowledge that he was absolutely right making her quiver with indignation.

"Don't try that one on me, Connie, it doesn't work," Owen threw back at her, his Scouse accent becoming broader the louder he got. "I am not letting you do this, when there is absolutely no need. She isn't just your patient, she's mine, and Ric's, and Zubin's at a stretch, so just for once, let someone else do the difficult bit." Turning violently on her heel, and hurling her gloves, followed by her theatre cap and mask into the nearest corner, Connie flung open one of the double doors, and stalked out.

As Zubin accompanied the woman to recovery, in preparation for waking her up, Ric, Owen, and latterly John, walked out of theatre into the scrub room. Connie was stood at the sink, her scrubs having been cast aside, furiously washing every known possibility of a germ from her long-fingered hands. As Ric joined her at the sink, he took a breath to speak to her.

"Don't," Connie said quietly, though her voice was full of tension. "Whatever it is, I don't want to hear it." As John removed his own scrubs and discarded them along with the mask, he knew that his own nerves were singing with unresolved tension, just as Connie's were.

"I'll let you know how she's getting on," Owen said after washing his own hands, but Connie didn't answer. Ric was obviously about to say something else to her, when his pager began bleeping. Glancing at the display, he turned back to Connie.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" She demanded icily. "Someone's obviously in need of your attention." It wasn't lost on either Ric or john, that Connie was trying to make herself as well as Ric, believe that she certainly didn't need his, or anyone else's attention.

"Connie, don't push me away," Ric said very quietly, so that only she could hear.

As she and John walked down the corridor a little while later, John tentatively broke the silence.

"Owen was absolutely right, you know."

"Oh, don't you start," Connie said wearily. "I'm sick to the bloody back teeth of well meaning intentions. So please, just drop it." Then, after a moment's silence, she added, "And don't look at me like that, that's how we talk to each other. It sounds crazy, I know, but if we didn't care, we wouldn't shout." When they reached her office, Connie said, "Right, I must go and satisfy the little nicotine habit I picked up in prison. So are you coming with me, or are you not?"

"Not you as well," John said in mock disgust. "Practically every woman I've ever met who's even so much as been near that place has emerged as a smoker."

"It must be the attractiveness of the decor," Connie said with a smile, digging a packet of cigarettes and a lighter out of her desk drawer. "Actually, I did smoke before I went behind bars," She admitted sheepishly. "But only after a particularly bad day in this place." Leading the way out of her office and towards the lift, Connie was accosted by Will.

"Connie, we've got a forty-year-old male with dizziness and chest pains."

"You know the procedure, Lord Curtis Harding," Connie told him dismissively. "Get a full blood count, an ECG, and an Echo, and I'll take a look when I come back." Without waiting for his highly predictable response, Connie walked into the lift and pressed the button for the eighth floor.

"Why do you insist on antagonising him?" John asked with a slight smile.

"Oh, because his very existence winds me up," Connie told him honestly. "And because he can't bear the fact that a woman has an enormous amount of authority over him. I will be perfectly happy to cut him some slack, just as soon as he learns that I might actually be able to teach him something." When they reached the eighth floor, Connie led the way up a flight of narrow stairs, until they emerged onto the hospital roof.

"God, I'll be lucky to keep my skirt on up here," Connie said ruefully, as she struggled to light a cigarette.

"I'm not complaining," John said with a smirk, standing in front of her to shield her flickering cigarette from the biting wind. Once she'd taken a strong drag, and the cigarette was therefore thoroughly lit, John moved to stand beside her, solicitously putting an arm round her to keep her warm.

"You've got blood on your shirt," He said, glancing down at her.

"It won't be the first time," She said, trying to blow her smoke away from him. "The first day I was here, I had to borrow one of Ric's." John laughed.

"That's a new way of getting to know someone's every curve."

"Mmm, and very successful it was too," Connie almost purred. Then, her face resuming its bleak expression of earlier, she said, "He thinks I'm pushing him away."

"And are you?" John asked, knowing that she was referring to whatever Ric had said to her in the scrub room.

"Probably," She admitted dully. "I don't actually enjoy hurting people, believe it or not, but sometimes it feels like the best thing to do."

"Who for?" John asked, running a gentle hand up and down her arm.

"I'm not sure," She replied, thinking that this conversation was becoming far too personal. "Feelings," She said almost desperately, as if trying to convince herself as well as him. "They're not something I do."

"I used to be like that," He said quietly, feeling her body stiffen with her need to maintain her equilibrium. "For years, I loved Jo, and in some of my more intuitive moments, George. But because neither one nor the other of them would tolerate my tendency to be unfaithful, I slept with more and more women, randomly picking up and discarding them, because I didn't have to have any real feelings for them. It ultimately didn't matter if I hurt every single one of them, because all I wanted was that temporary feeling of being loved. I wanted a committed relationship, but Jo wasn't having any of it, not for about fifteen years. I even had therapy for it once, but I ended up sleeping with my therapist."

"And I didn't exactly help matters, did I."

"It could have been a lot worse," John said fairly. "It could have been Jo to walk in on us instead of George, and believe me, that would have been far worse. George resigned herself to the fact that I will never entirely change a long time ago, but it would have destroyed Jo. The point is, that whilst it sometimes feels as though it would be far easier not to feel, not to allow yourself the truly frightening luxury of letting someone get close to you, it is something that we all have to do at some point, in order to survive."

"Easier said than done though, isn't it."

"Yes, of course it is. I assume, that it was Ric's baby," He said carefully.

"You assume right," Connie said almost tonelessly, showing just how much she didn't want to talk about this.

"Then just remember, that he probably needs just as much closure as you do."

"Yes, I know," Connie agreed with a heavy sigh. "But I really don't think I'm the best person to offer it. Ric might not look like it, but he needs someone to lean on, and I'm not sure that I'm very good support material."

When they returned down stairs to her office, Connie shut the door, closed the blinds and walked over to a tall, narrow cupboard in the corner and opened the door. Emerging with a clean shirt, she laid it on the desk as she began undoing the buttons of the one she was wearing. From his position at one end of her leather sofa, John had a perfect side on view of her emerging cleavage as she removed the shirt. But as she was about to discard it in favour of the clean one, there came a tap on the door. Before she could ask whoever it was to give her a minute, the door opened, revealing Zubin's slightly agog expression.

"Aha, come in, Professor Kahn, don't be shy," Connie invited with a smirk. "Someone who hasn't actually seen it all before."

"That must be a first," Zubin quipped as he came in and closed the door behind him, his assessing glance telling John that Zubin was very much aware, that he, John, certainly had seen this all before. As Connie and Zubin began discussing several of their patients, Connie put on the clean shirt, and began brushing her hair and redoing her make up. They were outlining plans for a hart and lung transplant that afternoon, plus a triple heart bypass that needed squeezing in before lunch if possible.

As the day went on, and John was swept along from one operation to another, taking in ward rounds, clashes with staff and the very occasional two-minute coffee break, he knew that his mind was being exponentionally expanded. He was learning, during every second of that day, and he was loving every minute of it. He wouldn't have wanted to spend every day of his life in that adrenalin fuelled fashion, and he felt that his mind might just be on overload by the time they came to the end of the afternoon, but as a once in a lifetime experience, it was incredible. When his watch eventually stood at around six o'clock, Connie dropped into the corner of her sofa, briefly closing her eyes.

"You look exhausted," John said, sitting down beside her.

"Be lucky you're not here when I'm doing a night shift," She said without opening her eyes.

"Would now be a good time for me to offer to cook you dinner?" He asked tentatively.

"Mmm," She groaned luxuriously, running her hands through her hair. "That would be lovely, if I can summon up the energy to get as far as the carpark."

"I thought you did extremely well today," John said quietly, making her focus her weary gaze on him.

"Oh, that's good," She said with a smile. "Though I'm not entirely sure that a failure to resuscitate and a miscarriage in theatre are much of a success, but that's a day in the life of Connie Beauchamp for you."

"Come on," He said, gently pulling her to her feet. "You deserve an enormous glass of wine."

"Ah, now there, I might just agree with you," She said, picking up her coat and her bag, switching off the computer and locking the door behind them. As they were walking towards the nurse's station, they were approached by Carlos.

"Hey, honey, how'd it go?" He asked, reaching them and putting his arms round Connie.

"Oh, not bad I suppose," She said, kissing his cheek. "I had a fight with Owen in theatre though."

"Yeah, I heard about that," Carlos's langorous Yankee drawl replied with concern. "It won't last, your fights never do. Well, only with Will Curtis."

"The sooner Mr. Curtis learns to fight back in a civilised and dignified fashion, the sooner he can start patting his ego again." They were then joined by Tricia.

"Oy, hands off, you," She said fondly to Carlos. "I've got plans for you tonight."

"Sounds like someone's onto a winner," Connie said with a smirk, releasing Carlos from their friendly, contented hug, knowing that Tricia would never take any offence of her friendship with Carlos.

"Hey, Connie," Carlos called after them as they moved down the corridor. "I heard you playing that CD again on the way to work this morning."

"It wasn't quite that loud," Connie protested over her shoulder. "Anyway," She added, seeing Carlos's look of blatant disbelief. "It wakes me up at that time in the morning." When they were in the lift, she explained. "When I was in prison, Carlos copied all my favourite country songs onto one CD. It sometimes brought back a lot of fond memories when everything got a bit too much, which was probably fairly often."

"Where's he from?" John asked, thinking that Connie had been lucky to have so many friends on the outside.

"Chicago born and bred, Miami trained, and with a voice as silky as melted chocolate. It's funny, because I never would have thought that he and Tricia would suit each other, but they've lasted a good couple of years now." When they reached the carpark, John raised an eyebrow at Connie's silver-grey jag.

"Had to spend the salary on something," She said, dropping tiredly into the driving seat and waiting for his car to lead the way.


	56. Chapter 56

A/N: I apologise to those who didn't want this to happen. There is a reason for it, I promise. The song lyrics come from New York by Tori Amos.

Part Fifty Six

Connie followed John's tail-lights through the endless Friday evening traffic, thinking that having a very attractive man cook dinner for her, followed by whatever might come next, would definitely do her good. She'd been affected more than she cared to admit, by the miscarriage in theatre, and she knew that it wouldn't do her any harm to forget for a while. The CD Carlos had made for her was playing, the familiar rhythms and melodies calming her fractious nerves. When she eventually drew her car up behind John's, he was getting out and locking the doors. Raising an eyebrow at the music he could hear coming from her car, he waited for her to switch off the engine and emerge.

"I can feel your sceptical disbelief from here," She said as she got out of the car. "But believe me, that CD kept me sane when I was in prison."

"Oh, no, each to their own," John said with a smile. "George plays music like that sometimes, but usually only when she's very depressed."

"Which is probably why it worked for me in prison," Connie said matter-of-factly, remembering the numerous occasions that she'd lain on her bed in that tiny narrow cell, with the music of so many of her fondest memories pouring out of the headphones.

When they climbed the stairs and entered his large, airy apartment, John sniffed. George had been here, he would know that fragrance anywhere. So, it seemed, would Connie, though she didn't say as much. Spying a note on the coffee table, John reached for it as Connie sank gratefully down onto the enormous sofa, kicking off her shoes and flexing her long, narrow feet.

"John, as I suspect you will have company this evening, I've left you a surprise in the fridge. Red meat ought to go down well with a self-confessed man-eater. Just do something for me, make a better job of satisfying her than I did."

John stood perfectly still, the note clasped in his hand, a maelstrom of feelings whizzing round in his head. So, George had slept with Connie. After everything they'd all been through over the last few months, or, if he was honest, for the greater part of their lives, she had finally cheated on him. But he forced himself to remember that George had in fact had a relationship with Karen. He hadn't regarded that as George cheating on him, eventually, so he shouldn't really regard whatever happened with Connie as cheating. Connie was sitting here, looking utterly delectable, even after a truly horrendous day, and she hadn't told him that she'd slept with George. How did he feel about that, he wasn't sure. He wasn't so much angry with either of them, or even all that hurt, but he did want to know why it had happened. Thinking that this could be dealt with later, John moved into the kitchen, asking Connie whether she preferred red or white.

"Red please," Connie replied, taking in the surroundings of the relaxed, though obviously expensive Docklands apartment. There was a large, antique desk in one corner, looking out of the huge bay window. His violin case was resting in an armchair, showing that he'd probably been playing it the night before, and the rack of CDs ran a good way along the wall above the stereo. When she spied the cello in another corner, she asked,

"Do you play the cello as well?"

"No, it's Jo's," He said, returning from the kitchen and handing her a glass. "She's away this weekend, so she asked me to keep an eye on it, though that was before Tuesday happened." Getting the feeling that whatever had happened on Tuesday wasn't for her ears, Connie bypassed it in favour of asking,

"Does George play?"

"The piano, and sings like an angel, though she usually does everything to hide the fact." Walking over to the desk, John retrieved a CD and handed it to her. It was the copy of 'The Creation' that had been recorded of the performance, nearly eighteen months ago now. On the front cover of the CD, was a group photograph of George, Monty, and Neil as the soloists, accompanied by Joe as the conductor, and John as the leader of the orchestra.

"That was the bar counsel's idea of a team building exercise," John said as her eyes widened. "There were a few fraught moments, but it was fun most of the time. The conductor was George's father, and the rest of the orchestra and the chorus were made up with members of the bar counsel, plus anyone else to fill any gaps, including Karen Betts."

"I'd love to have seen that," Connie said in admiration. Removing the insert, she began scanning the seemingly endless list of musicians, finding Jo's name among the cellists, Karen's among the violas, and even Barbara's as the player of the harpsichord. "Can I borrow this?" She asked, returning the insert to the case. "I'd like to listen to it when I can guarantee that I won't be disturbed."

"Remind me after we've eaten, and I'll run off a copy for you," John said, feeling a certain sense of pride that she wanted to give it her undivided attention. Looking back at the photograph of George on the front cover, Connie said almost sadly,

"She looks so happy. I didn't know she had the capacity to be so radiant."

"She was happier that day than I'd seen her in a long time, before or since," John replied, taking a sip of the Bordeaux in his glass. Then, realising that he might just be able to catch Connie off her guard, he added, "Are you sure you've never seen her looking quite so elated?"

"No, never," Connie said without hesitation.

"Oh? Not even at the point of orgasm?" John asked silkily, fixing Connie with his penetrating gaze.

"And what makes you assume that I've slept with her?" Connie rebounded without a flicker, though knowing that he must have some pretty concrete proof to float such a thought. Removing George's note from his trouser pocket, John handed it to her and watched as she read it. "Well, well," Connie said with slow deliberation. "Game, set and match, Ms Channing. But to answer your question, George couldn't go through with it, which is why she thinks it was a disaster." Taking a breath to reply, though he didn't know what he could say, John was interrupted by the ringing of Connie's mobile. Digging it out of her handbag, she answered it, John going into the kitchen to see what George had left them for dinner, which turned out to be fillet steak, and the vegetables for a stir-fry.

The caller turned out to be Owen.

"Connie," He said in greeting. "Where are you?"

"Somewhere I'm not really supposed to be," She said with a smile. "How's my patient?"

"She died, I'm sorry."

"Oh," Connie said bleakly. "Did she ever regain consciousness?"

"No, so she never knew about the baby."

"Has anyone turned up to claim her?"

"No, not yet, but we've circulated a description, so something might turn up tomorrow."

"Thank you for letting me know, and Owen, I'm sorry, about earlier. Theatre really isn't the place for trying to prove a point."

"It doesn't matter," Owen said kindly. "Connie, where are you really?" He asked, now thoroughly intrigued.

"If I don't tell you, Mr. Davis, then you won't be obliged to divide your loyalties."

"Oh, I see," Owen said with a rye little smile, hearing the unmistakable hint of flirtation in Connie's voice. "Well, look after yourself."

When Connie switched off the phone, she went into the kitchen, to see John chopping mushrooms, celery and mange tout for the stir-fry.

"That was Owen," She told him. "The patient who lost the baby, she died."

"I'm sorry," John replied, genuinely meaning it.

"It's all part of a normal day's work, unfortunately," Connie said, leaning on the edge of the table. "But I should never have asked such a stupid question in theatre. I'm a doctor for god's sake, when there's no heartbeat, there's absolutely nothing anyone can do with a foetus that young."

"Connie," John told her gently. "You lost a baby, only a matter of weeks ago, so what you said in theatre was perfectly understandable."

"You're supposed to exhibit a level of emotional detachment, somehow coupled with a certain amount of sensitivity. The first patient you lose is a personal tragedy, as is just about every child you don't manage to save, but eventually you somehow have to harden yourself to the realities of it. It's really the only way to survive." Heating some oil in a pan on the stove, John began gently sautéing the chopped vegetables. Standing at the cooker, occasionally stirring the contents of the pan with a wooden spoon, he put his left arm out to her, and when she moved within its hold, he softly kissed her. They could both taste the fruity Bordeaux on the other's lips, and it felt to both of them as if this was the beginning of the final act in a long and slightly harrowing performance.

"I'm sorry, about George," She said when their lips eventually parted.

"Why was it such a disaster?" John asked, still not removing his arm from around her shoulders.

"It was I who originally made the first move, but I think George wanted to sleep with me," Connie explained carefully. "Because she wanted to prove to herself that she could still pick someone up at a moment's notice, even whilst looking the way she does. But, when it came down to it, she couldn't go through with it, because she didn't want me to see her."

"Would the way she looks have bothered you?"

"No, not in the slightest. I tried to tell her that, but it didn't make any difference. Her confidence is still at rock bottom, and it'll probably be a very long time before she really begins to get any of it back. I'm fairly certain that she used the proprieties of our professional relationship as a very convenient excuse."

"This, whatever you want to call it, happened last Saturday, didn't it," He said, thinking back.

"Yes," She told him honestly. "Why?"

"George was very," He hesitated over the right word, "unhappy, on Sunday. She obviously had a lot to think about."

"I don't want to make her unhappy," Connie said quietly, feeling a certain sadness that George was agonising over this.

"George knows that professionally, any relationship she has with you would be about as wrong as it gets," John told her thoughtfully. "But considering where you are now, I have absolutely no room to talk. I just don't want her to get hurt, that's all."

"She won't get hurt by me, John, I can promise you that," Connie said sincerely, meaning this with every fibre of her being.

After a few minutes of companionable silence, John said,

"Do you want to put some music on?"

"Sure," Connie replied, walking back into the lounge to survey his eclectic tastes in all their glory. But spying something she recognised on top of the stereo, she asked, "Is this Tori Amos CD yours?"

"No," John said ruefully. "It's either George's or Charlie's. Put it on if you like."

"Who's Charlie?" Connie asked, after putting the CD on and returning to the kitchen.

"My daughter, George's daughter. She's twenty-six, and can still wrap me round her little finger." Connie laughed. "So, how do you like your steak?" John asked, removing them from the fridge.

"Definitely on the rare side of medium," Connie said seductively. "And as tender and juicy as possible."

"Is that how you like your women?" John asked, his tone matching hers.

"Well, never having slept with one, I couldn't possibly tell you," Connie said with a smirk. "Whereas men, well now," She said, prowling silently towards him in her bare feet, "Extremely well done would be the obvious answer, but try adding red hot to the core, with maybe a little bit of tenderness in reserve." Standing in front of him, her eyes narrowed speculatively, almost as if she were sizing him up, seeing if he could rise to her rigorous, high-class standards. He loved the fact that she was blatantly seducing him in his own kitchen, working her powerful magic on him just as she might on a lesser mortal. As his hands rested casually on her shoulders, and he took the opportunity to thoroughly scrutinize her, he realised just how much extra height those punishing shoes of hers must give her.

"Precisely why," He said almost mockingly. "Do you insist on wearing such killer heels for work?"

"For the power they invariably command, why else."

"You like having so many men under your cosh, don't you."

"It is an added bonus of one's rise in professional status, yes. Why, you're surely not telling me that sitting in sovereignty over a court of law, doesn't make your spine tingle with the adrenalin of having so many people's lives in your hands? Because you have just as much say over their destiny as I do."

"I only pass sentence," John said, turning away from her to put the steaks under the grill. "It's the jury who decides the verdict." Connie stayed quiet for a while, watching him light the grill, and then spoon the stir fry onto two heated up plates.

"Do you think a jury will convict me, John?" Putting the wooden spoon back in the saucepan, John turned to face her, catching a brief glimpse of the fear in her eyes, before the barriers came swinging down once again. Putting his arms round her, he could feel her entire body singing with unresolved tension.

"I know, that you didn't do it, Connie," He said into her hair. "But that doesn't mean I can guarantee you an acquittal. Juries are very unpredictable things, and I have known them to come out with the most perverse verdicts imaginable. All I can promise you is a fair trial. Just as Mr. Davis couldn't put life back into that baby in theatre, I cannot manufacture justice.

"What makes you so certain that I didn't do it?" She asked into his shoulder.

"Connie, I've defended killers, and I've prosecuted them. I can assure you that you definitely are not a killer. You would hardly be fraternising with your judge if you were, now would you."

"No, I suppose not."

"Come on," He said after a couple of minutes contented silence. "Or your steak really will be well done."

They sat on each side of the kitchen table to eat their meal, the steak easily living up to Connie's wish.

"I hope I managed to teach you something today," She said after they'd eaten in silence for a while.

"Are you kidding?" John said in astonishment. "Of course you did. I haven't learnt so much all in one go, since my first day in court. I wouldn't want to do it every day though. I used to think that the legal profession was extremely adept at applying pressure, but that's nothing compared to what you have to deal with on a daily basis."

"I sometimes think that's why we fight so much," Connie said, after taking a swig of her wine. "It's also why most hospitals are so rife with casual sex. It's the adrenalin rush of always having to get it right, with absolutely no room for error. Your first year as a junior doctor shows you whether you can stand up to the pressure or not, and the vast majority find that either they can, or they quit. So, we can deal with the pressure, but it sometimes has to come out, in either a fight, or a quickie in the nearest office. I think that's got a lot to do with why most hospital relationships are so incestuous. The prime example, being when Owen was seeing both Chrissie and Tricia at the same time. I'm told that the screaming match that ensued was quite a sight to behold." John laughed.

"Now that really is playing with fire," He said almost in awe.

"No more than sleeping with two barristers who routinely appear before you."

"I've become far more adept at covering my tracks," John said silkily. "I used to live in the judge's digs, but I moved here when this three-way thing began. We might all love each other, but we will never live together."

"You and George under the same roof sounds like a recipe for disaster," Connie said dryly.

"Quite," John agreed with her. "We're all too used to having our freedom and too much of our own space. It also means, that if we do start drifting, as Jo has been doing for the last couple of months, it is far less likely to cause any friction."

"Sometimes cancer can do that to a relationship," Connie said gently. "The pressure and the heartache become a bit too corrosive."

"I know," John said regretfully. "It won't last, at least I hope it won't."

"There's no real reason why it should," Connie said fairly, thinking that both Jo and George were incredibly lucky to have such an understanding man.

Connie washed while John dried, the music from the other room filling their companionable silence.

"God, I listened to so much music while I was in prison," She said, eventually coming out of her thoughts.

"I'd have thought that something like this would make the depression worse, not better," John replied, taking in the mournful tones of the CD that was playing.

"Yes, it probably did," Connie said ruefully. "Some music is like that though, you listen to it because you're miserable, yet even though you know it's making you worse, you can't seem to stop listening. No matter how bad things got, I could put the headphones on, and leave everything behind me for a while." As they listened to the beautifully lyrical piano introduction to the next song, Connie opened her mouth to sing, in an utterly automatic revelation of something she so often did.

"From here, no lines are drawn.

From here, no lands are owned."

Her voice was pure, clear, with the faintest hint of huskiness from too much smoking. John couldn't help smiling as she sang, thinking that it made a nice change from one that had been classically trained. Catching sight of the expression on his face, Connie stopped, a little embarrassed at her outburst.

"Oh, don't stop," He told her. "Singing is quite clearly something else you can certainly do."

"It's often my antidote to a stressful day," She said sheepishly.

"Feel free," He prompted, wanting to hear more of this unsuspected talent. With an inward shrug, Connie returned to the words.

"What do you mean? The side of what things?

And you said, and you did, and you said you would find me here.

And you said, that you would, find me in death.

And you said, and you said you'd find me."

She stopped again as a thought occurred to her.

"I wish that patient would find me, and show me some answers," She said philosophically.

"Yes, that might be useful," John said with a rye smile. "Though I'm not sure a jury would take such a testimony seriously." Before she could reply, they both took in another line from the CD.

"I can't seem to find my way out of this hunting ground."

"I sometimes feel as though I'm being hunted," Connie said quietly. "Prison was a bit like that. The only time I could safely relax, was during lock up. I wasn't given the title of posh bitch for nothing."

"Did you get to know someone called Denny?"

"Yes, and I probably owe my life to her several times over. Why?"

"That was always Denny's name for George, on the couple of times she's met her."

"I think it was Denny who gave me that dubious accolade. If it wasn't for her, I'd have been given a particularly brutal unauthorised drugs search, by two charming little individuals serving life sentences. One of the officers made no secret of the fact that I'm a doctor, so they all naturally assumed I would be carrying a stash big enough to supply the entire wing."

"You talk about it quite dismissively," John observed, seeing that this was clearly her way of blocking out the more horrific of her memories.

"It was horrible at the beginning, and I really had no idea just how I was going to survive. The fact that nobody would, or could, answer any of my numerous questions was infuriating. But they weren't all bad. Have you ever heard of the two Julies?"

"I've met them," John said with a broad smile. "They once provided me with a tasty little piece of blackmail to use on one of my fellow judges."

"Oh, don't tell me," Connie said with a laugh. "He'd been one of their clients."

"Yes. I used that wonderfully scurrilous piece of information to get hold of a trial that I knew he would be leant on to influence."

"The Julies were very sweet to me," Connie said fondly. "And Denny practically appointed herself my bodyguard. One thing prison does teach you, is to be constantly aware of the slightest change in your surroundings, because it can be a matter of life and death if you're not careful. Then, because I was only on remand, someone could come to see me almost every day. Ric, Tricia, Carlos and Donna, they all came to see me on different days, and I obviously saw George on a regular basis too."

"What got to you most?"

"The sheer monotony of having nothing to do," She said without hesitation. "Thomas Waugh was good to me, though. He allowed me access to his medical journals and reference books, so that I could catch up with writing a couple of articles that I'd been putting off for months. After a while, you do get used to it."

"What was that final fight all about?" He asked, referring to the fight that had caused her to miscarry.

"One particularly evil specimen of humanity, implied that I was sleeping with my barrister, not in the nicest of terms. I probably overreacted a bit, but it was the last in a very long line of attempts to provoke me. I haven't got into a physical scrap since I was fifteen, but I guess it's a skill you never really forget." She went suddenly quiet, and John could see that his question had provoked her into contemplating memories that she would probably rather not. As he took the dripping saucepan from her, their hands touched, bringing her back out of her introspection.

"So many people were incredibly proud of you, for surviving and staying focussed while you were in there," He said gently, looking deep into her eyes.

"I'm not sure why," She said dismissively.

"Something George said to me, was that she certainly couldn't have done it. She said that she would have lost it completely if she'd been in your position."

"It would have been a far different matter, if I'd already been convicted, and looking at ten years in a place like that. The fact that I had a reason to get out was probably what kept me sane. I didn't know who was behind the death of my patient, and I knew that I had to survive in order to get out and find the answers."

"Connie, you said that you didn't, know who was behind this."

"Yes, I did, didn't I? I do have the tiniest suspicion, but until I can find some proof, there's absolutely no point in voicing it."

"Just be careful," He warned, putting the saucepan down on the drainer, and moving to put his arms round her.

Their lips met with a real intensity this time, John wanting to show her all the positive feelings he knew he could induce, and Connie desperately wanting to regain something she knew she was good at. Pulling her against him, John could feel her nipples hardening and brought one hand up to tentatively caress her breast. They moved by mutual agreement through the lounge and towards the bedroom, hands endlessly wandering, unfastening clothes and exploring skin along the way.

"That is definitely the most enormous bed I've ever seen," Connie said with a laugh when they reached the bedroom.

"It has to be," John replied, relieving her of her blouse and bra, before swiftly unzipping her skirt and letting it fall to the floor. "That ought to be made illegal," John said, staring in awe at her virtually non-existent black G-string. Making fast work of the rest of their clothes, they met under the duvet, hands reacquainting themselves with each other's skin.

"What would you like?" He asked, delicately teasing her nipples, the heavy ripeness of her breasts fitting so perfectly into his hands.

"Whatever you want to give me, Judge," she said, happy to allow him to set the pace.

"Do not, call me Judge when I'm doing this," He said, the sternness of his frown slightly marred by the fact that he was still kissing her. Connie laughed.

"You mean, that you've never sat up there on your throne of majesty, and eyed up the witness's legs while she's on the stand, as you did with me, for instance?"

"You are proving to be an exception to just about every rule," He said with a smirk, slipping a hand between her legs. "For example, if there was ever a woman I would have assumed to be entirely straight, it's you."

"I do believe it's called having hidden depths," She said silkily, as his fingers began gliding solicitously over her lubricated flesh.

"So, after so many years of just men, what made you look in George's direction?"

"Do you seriously expect me to have an articulate conversation, while you're in the process of removing every ounce of self-control I thought I had?" She quipped back; his wandering fingers making her squirm with ecstasy. John laughed.

"So says the woman who can do about six things at once, and still manage to argue with every surgeon in the vicinity."

"George is beautiful, we'd both had several glasses of wine, and it seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Jo once said that George had something about her, that made Jo do things she wouldn't normally contemplate."

"Yes, you could put it like that. I've occasionally looked at other women, but never considered doing anything more than observe from a distance. I was offered some company in prison."

"I don't doubt it," John said dryly, beginning to kiss his way down to eventually sweep his tongue over one of her nipples, before taking it firmly between his full, soft lips.

"John, can you please not do that?" She said between slightly clenched teeth. Instantly ceasing what he was doing, he looked up at her.

"You liked it a few months ago," He said reasonably.

"I know," She replied, wondering quite how to put this. "But they've been a little on the sensitive side, since I was pregnant. It seems that my body hasn't entirely sorted itself out yet."

"Oh, I see," John said with understanding, remembering the different ways George's body had changed during that time. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," She said, softly touching his cheek. "Just be gentle, that's all." As he kissed his way down her body, he stroked the undersides of her breasts with only minimal contact, though she found his deftness incredibly stimulating. When he began sampling her musky flavour, she let out a sigh of pure contentment. She hadn't had this particular delicacy lavished on her since before her time behind bars, the one and only occasion she'd tried to sleep with Ric since then having been a disaster.

"Mmm," She groaned luxuriously. "You ought to be playing the flute with a tongue like that." As his mouth was otherwise engaged, all John could do was to softly laugh, his deep, resonant masculinity sliding over her senses. He thrust his agile tongue into her entrance, savouring her sweetness as he had the red wine they'd had with their dinner. He flickered the very tip of his tongue over her clitoris, languorously sweeping the surrounding nerve endings with each movement. He could hear her breath coming in short; sharp little gasps now, a sure sign that her pleasure was building. When he hummed, with his lips encircling her clitoris, she half cried out at his initiative, and half laughed at the tingle of the vibration. When she came, her whole body jerked, and as the waves of her orgasm cascaded over her, John continued soothing her sensitive flesh, taking in every morsel of sexual secretion her body had to offer.

Afterwards, she lay sprawled on his bed, as John moved back to lie beside her. Her skin was flushed with a soft, rosy glow, her eyes hazy with temporarily satisfied lust. As he gently put his arms round her, her eyes drowsily focused on him.

"I haven't felt that good since, well, since quite a long time ago."

"You're beautiful," He said in wonder, tracing a delicate finger over the curve of her breast.

"I don't often feel it these days," She said ruefully.

"You will, once all this has been sorted out." As she turned onto her side in order to be closer to him, she felt safe in his arms, safe from anything that might threaten her. John was so similar to Ric, in so many ways, she thought dreamily. They were both fantastic in bed, they both had the capacity to be incredibly caring, and they both had that dry wit and sense of humour that usually managed to raise a smile out of her. But she was also forced to admit, that they both had the potential to be immensely unreliable, Ric with money, and John with women. When she kissed him, she could taste her own essence on his lips, which provoked a new surge of pleasure deep inside her. His hand was slowly moving between her legs again, inevitably setting her on the path towards another orgasm.

"I wonder if you could die from having too much pleasure," She speculated with a smirk, privately thinking that it would be a lovely way to go.

"I'm not sure that it could be used as a method of murder," John replied, clearly mulling over the possibility. As she felt her arousal beginning to build, she slipped a hand down to give him some very overdue attention. But as her hand closed over him, his froze in its tracks. John wasn't remotely aroused, and he could see in her eyes that this had shocked her. He felt utterly humiliated, and in truth, he really didn't know why this had happened. It was such a rare occurrence for him, that he was never forced to give the matter any serious thought. Removing his hand from her, he moved out of her arms and lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, with a look of sheer exasperation and self-loathing on his face. Still lying on her side so that she could look at him, Connie felt a wave of sympathy for him. It wasn't just men who went through phases of sexual disinterest, but it was always the men who took it so badly.

"John, talk to me," She said, breaking into the slightly tense silence.

"What is there to say?" He said bitterly, refusing to meet her gaze. "Except, I'm sorry."

"John, look at me," She encouraged gently, turning his face towards her. "It really, doesn't, matter," She said slowly and deliberately.

"Really," John said disbelievingly. "And this from, how was it George described you, a self-confessed man-eater." Connie laughed.

"I wouldn't entirely agree with her at the moment, but there you are. John, it happens. Trust me, I'm a doctor." Moving towards him, she put her arms round him and softly kissed him. "You've had an extremely weird and knackering day, so this is an entirely natural response. Please don't beat yourself up about it." Turning over towards her, he wrapped his arms round her, and as their legs entwined, he tried to convey his immense feeling of apology and gratitude to her. If he was honest with himself, Connie Beauchamp was the last person he would have expected to be remotely understanding about this, but her knowledgeable awareness of male anatomy had ensured the exact opposite. They stayed quiet for a time, just listening to the music still coming from the lounge, the CD now being on its third playing. He occasionally ran his hand up and down her back, or ran his fingers through her hair, simply happy to have her soft and curvaceous body in his bed.

After about half an hour of simple cuddling and the occasional kiss, John broached the subject that had been uppermost in his mind for the majority of the day.

"Connie, do four month babies always look like that?" Dragging herself back to full alertness, Connie realised that they'd finally come to the heart of his problem.

"That really got to you, didn't it," She said gently. Then, when he didn't respond, she said, "Yes, they do look pretty much the same as that one did. Why?"

"I just wondered," He said evasively, not really wanting to confess this too her.

"Tell me," She prompted, seeing that he needed to get this out into the open.

"Not long after I started seeing Jo, about twenty years ago now, she discovered she was pregnant. Neither of our lives were exactly compatible with having any more children, so she decided to have a termination."

"Ah," Connie said, understanding instantly. "Four months is quite late for a termination."

"Her life was more than a little hectic at the time, so she didn't realise until quite late on. It was far enough along for her to tell that it was a boy."

"John, if I'd known any of this, I would never have allowed you to stay in there this morning," Connie said vehemently, brief tears rising to her eyes at the pain he had forced himself to endure. "I would have insisted that you left. I wish you had done."

"I couldn't," He said quietly. "I've never really had any idea of what JO went through all those years ago, because she would barely talk to me after it happened, and it's something she positively avoids discussing even now. I had to know just how horrific it would have been for her."

"That was an incredibly brave thing for you to do, John," Connie told him kindly, never having encountered anyone who was so determined to right their mistakes of the past. Slipping out of bed to switch off the CD, John returned to hold her close to him, to breathe in the soft, subtle fragrance of her, as they gradually drifted off to sleep, the sound of an occasional passing car the only thing to break their contented silence. Nothing more needed to be said between them, because all that was important had been gone over. John could hear the gentle ticking of the bedside clock, marking out the seconds that stretched before them. Connie's eyes had closed, and he could feel her soft breath on his cheek. This beautiful, skilful, incredibly understanding woman, she couldn't be a killer, it was ludicrous to entertain such a thought. She was so sensitive, so good at her job, and just so sexy, that to think anything bad of her was simply a heresy. As he cradled her against him, slowly falling asleep himself, he vowed that if, in a couple of months' time, the jury did find her guilty, he would fight every day until he could yet again set her free.


	57. Chapter 57

Part Fifty Seven

On the Friday evening, George dropped round to see Karen. She did this because she hoped it would prevent her from thinking too much about what John and Connie would probably be doing this evening. She could all too readily picture them together, after having walked in on them in February, and she had accepted that it would probably happen, at some point if not actually today, but that didn't necessarily mean she had to like it. She also found herself wanting to talk to Karen about everything, her feelings for Connie, the argument she'd had with her father, what had happened with Jo, everything. George thought that it was far too long since she and Karen had spent some time together, catching up on everything that was taking place in their lives.

"This is a nice surprise," Karen said when she opened the door, to see George standing on the step with a bottle of wine.

"You're not busy, are you?" George enquired, not wanting to intrude if Karen was in the middle of doing something else.

"I'm never too busy for you," Karen replied with a smile, kissing George on the cheek. "How are you?"

"Tired, confused and miserable," George said as she took a seat on the sofa. "What about you?"

"Up to my eyes in paperwork, but what's new," Karen replied as she poured herself a scotch and George a dry Martini. "We've finally begun the process of removing Sylvia for good."

"Yes, so Nikki told me," George said, taking the glass from Karen. "If you ever need a lawyer to really hammer her into the ground, let me know."

"We may well need a lawyer at some point, Sylvia being the union agitator that she is, so yes, I'll definitely keep you in mind."

"Precisely how much are you going to throw at her?"

"Everything she's ever allowed to happen, well, that we know of, because I'm certain that she's accomplished things in her time that nobody knows anything about."

"Did you know that some of G wing's inhabitants have made a card for Connie? Nikki gave it to me to give to Connie when I saw her and Helen last night."

"I think they miss her," Karen said thoughtfully, retrieving a cigarette from the packet on the table. "She certainly made a lasting impression on a few of them."

"I think Connie manages to achieve that with every person who crosses her path," George said quietly, lighting a cigarette of her own.

"So, what I've seen growing between the two of you in the last couple of months isn't in my imagination," Karen said seriously.

"No," George replied, not quite able to meet Karen's gaze. "Part of me wishes it was. Part of me would like to be able to deny it, to bury it, to push any thought of getting to know her in an entirely unprofessional sense away from me and forget about it, but that's not something I think I can do."

"Can I make an observation?" Karen asked, after taking a few moments to think.

"Be my guest," George replied dryly.

"You weren't like this over Jo. Yes, you were happy when you'd finally sorted things out with her, and when you'd got round to telling John about it, but you weren't agonising over it in the way that you so obviously are about Connie. But then I think that what you did feel for Jo in the beginning, was overshadowed by the unnecessary guilt that you felt about what you were doing to me."

"It might sound unbearably cliché," George told her honestly. "But Connie is different. There's something about her that makes me want to know everything there is to know, no matter how good, bad or indifferent that might be. There is also the added factor that whilst she is my client, this is about as forbidden as it can get."

"You should ask Helen about forbidden temptation," Karen said with a slight smile. "Because she didn't deal with it any better than you're doing now."

"Daddy is furious with me about this," George told her sadly. "I was stupid enough to ask his advice about possibly becoming involved with a client, and then Charlie managed to thoroughly but unknowingly drop me in it, by asking how Connie's case was going. Daddy put two and two together, and much to my disgust well and truly made four."

"I take it that he hasn't ever committed such an indiscretion."

"He says not, but whether he actually has, well, I'm not altogether sure. He wouldn't have done while my mother was still alive, but after she died, well, who knows. But his biggest problem with what I may or may not be doing, is that it's with a woman."

"He didn't have too much of a problem when I was on the scene," Karen observed.

"Well, I found out last weekend that he thought you were a phase, a voyage of discovery, something I needed to experience and get out of my system. Clearly, he hadn't actually ever entertained the thought that I might like to have a fling with a woman more than once. He described my attraction to women as an abnormal desire, which isn't something I am likely to forget in a hurry." Karen winced.

"I really wouldn't have expected that from him," She said thoughtfully.

"I ought to have known that he would feel like that about it," George said regretfully. "I suppose I'm just too used to him supporting nearly everything I do as a matter of course."

"You're looking tired," Karen told her after a contemplative silence. "And somewhat thinner than usual."

"And you're far too observant for your own good," George said a little defensively.

"Something's happened," Karen said, ignoring George's tone. "Something that you haven't yet told me about."

"I had a pretty bad exchange of views with Jo on Tuesday. We both hurled far too many bitter insults at each other, some of which held a little too much truth for comfort. You know what I'm like when I get going, so it shouldn't surprise you to know that when I made the lowest of the low when it came to accusations, Jo slapped my face, something she's never done before. I might in hindsight realise that I definitely deserved it, but it was still a shock."

"What on earth did you say to make her do that?" Karen asked, wondering just where all this anger between Jo and George had come from.

"I intimated that Jo got her title of barrister by sleeping with John."

"George, that might be bad, even for you, but would Jo have really slapped you if there wasn't the slightest modicum of truth in what you said? Sure, if I'd been in Jo's position and you'd said something similar to me, I wouldn't have liked it and I would definitely have had something to say about it, but I wouldn't have slapped you for it. You know, you two seem to have fallen out of love incredibly quickly."

"When Jo began sleeping with tom Campbell-Gore, it brought it home to me just how one-sided our relationship actually was. Karen, when I was sleeping with you, everything you introduced me to was, well, was incredible. You made me want to make you feel as good as you made me feel. You made me want to give you as much pleasure as you gave me. Somehow, I don't appear to have had the same effect on Jo. She's quite happy to enjoy what I do for her, but she doesn't especially want to give much of it back. I know that just because I thoroughly enjoy what I do for Jo, doesn't mean she necessarily would like doing the same for me, but I don't think I can continue with such an unequal relationship."

"You need someone who will at least attempt to meet you half way," Karen concluded.

"Does that sound unbearably selfish?"

"No, it's honest," Karen told her. "Not selfish.

"I'm just so confused that it's ridiculous," George said miserably. "Whenever I've slept with John in the last couple of weeks, I don't feel particularly satisfied. I do enjoy it, but it's somehow not quite enough. I'm angry with Jo, because I feel that her sitting as a judge in Connie's case will screw everything up from the word go, and I can't get the thought of what I know Connie looks like without her clothes out of my head. Then, on top of that, I am well aware that after having spent the day shadowing Connie, John will almost certainly take her home with him and end up sleeping with her. Neither of them is likely to positively avoid a repeat of what happened between them in February. In that respect, John is certainly predictable. Then there's Ric."

"What about him?"

"I found out last week that his registrar is going to be standing for the prosecution, which things being as they currently are between him and Connie, he probably doesn't know yet. Part of me thinks I should tell him because I do think he should know, but as Connie is my client, my loyalty must remain with her."

"Look at it like this," Karen said, getting up to refill their glasses. "If Ric is informed about his registrar's allegiance, he can't unknowingly damage Connie's case by saying something he shouldn't in front of said registrar."

"That is particularly devious," George told her with a smirk. "But I like it, thank you."

"There's no time like the present," Karen said, handing George her glass and picking up the phone. "Ric," She said when he answered. "Do you fancy coming over for a drink?"

"Yeah, that'd be nice," Ric said gratefully, feeling that an evening spent in Karen's undemanding company was precisely what he needed after such a long and hard day. Knowing that Connie was probably now closeted somewhere with John, Ric knew that he needed a distraction, something, anything to prevent him heading for the nearest casino.

When Ric arrived, he was surprised to see George.

"You look like I feel," He said in greeting.

"If that's tired and depressed, then you're in good company," George told him.

"Was it your idea for the Judge to spend a day shadowing Connie?" Ric asked as Karen poured him a large scotch.

"Yes. I hope John managed to behave himself."

"He did, but I'm not sure I can say the same for Connie," Ric said, sinking down in a nearby armchair.

"Do I even want to know what happened?" George asked, wondering just how much trouble she would be expected to get Connie out of by the end of this case.

"She just started a row in theatre with someone that's all, after dismissing Will Curtis back to the ward as though he was still in med school."

"Talking of Mr. Curtis, he's going to be one of the witnesses for the prosecution."

"That's not exactly a surprise," Ric told her, "Is anyone else from St. Mary's?"

"Yes," George said with the weight of an approaching bombshell. "Your registrar, Diane Lloyd." The most immediate reaction in Ric's face was pain, but this was quickly followed by anger.

"Put that glass down before you break it," Karen told him firmly, observing the way in which he was squeezing it. Instead of obeying her instruction, Ric tossed back the scotch in one.

"Why would she do this?" Ric asked, his voice slightly croaky from the fire of the scotch.

"I wondered if you might be able to tell me that," George replied gently. When Ric didn't speak, Karen put in,

"Wasn't Diane the doctor you nearly married when she was in med school?"

"Yes," Ric said eventually. "I used to think I loved her."

"Knowing you," Karen said fondly. "You probably still do."

"No, not any more, and especially not after this. Diane and Connie have always rubbed each other up the wrong way, but I never knew that the dislike ran so deep."

"Is Diane really likely to believe that Connie did kill Angela Masters?" George asked him, seeing that Diane's defection really had hurt him to the core.

"That's what so stupid about this," He said bitterly. "The day we threatened to go on strike, to pressure the board into allowing Connie back to work, both myself and Tom were going round, getting people to sign a petition in support of Connie. I wasn't all that surprised that Diane wouldn't sign it, but when I asked her if she really thought that Connie was a killer, she said no. So, either she was lying to me, which wouldn't be the first time, or she's doing this for a different reason entirely."

"Does Diane still have feelings for you?" Karen asked.

"I doubt it," Ric told them disgustedly. "Diane has never been able to understand or come to terms with my gambling, something for which I can't really blame her."

After a long, thoughtful pause, Karen looked over at Ric and asked,

"Have you eaten?"

"No," He said, coming back from thoughts of Diane.

"Do I want to know when you last ate?" Karen asked George, running a finger over the back of her hand.

"Probably not," George admitted sheepishly.

"And will you eat with us this evening?"

"Yes, if I absolutely must," George replied with a shrug. "I suppose that three days without food is quite long enough for anyone." Ric's eyebrows rose to meet his hairline.

"You aren't seriously telling me that you've stopped eating just because you and Jo ended up going back to your old battle lines? Why the bloody hell would you feel guilty for Jo's having given you a bruise?"

"Let's not discuss this now," George told her quietly. Seeming to think better of continuing her diatribe because of Ric's presence, Karen got up from the sofa and walked towards the kitchen. As George lit a cigarette and took a long drag, Ric regarded her thoughtfully.

"Please don't look at me like that," George said into the resulting silence.

"I think that Connie would prefer her barrister to remain healthy until her trial. After all, there isn't much of you to begin with."

"Oh, and I suppose that you achieved the status of a consultant surgeon, just so that you could blow your entire salary and end up on a bankruptcy charge for fun did you?"

"I might be broke," Ric threw back at her. "But at least I'm not trying to put myself into an early grave." Briefly coming out of the kitchen, Karen frowned over at them and said,

"Will the pair of you please stop throwing insults across my coffee table?" When Karen had returned to the task of finding them all some dinner, Ric said,

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah, me too," George replied wearily. "It seems to be my week for angry retorts."

"What happened with Jo?" Ric asked, finding himself wanting to give George a hug.

"Nothing that hasn't been waiting to happen for more years than I care to count."

When they sat down at the table, Karen presented them with plates of grilled chicken and salad, with the addition of fried potatoes on her own and Ric's, knowing that George probably wouldn't entertain the idea of eating anything that contained carbohydrates. Opening the bottle of wine that George had brought with her, she poured them all a glass.

"So," George asked Ric after a while. "How enlightened do you think John will be after today?"

"I didn't actually see that much of him," Ric told her between mouthfuls. "Not after this morning, which was certainly eventful. Connie and I and Zubin were operating on a female RTA. That was when Connie kicked Will out of theatre. Then, the woman we were putting back together suffered a miscarriage." George winced in sympathy.

"How did Connie deal with it?"

"In her usual way," Ric told her bitterly. "By pushing it to the back of her mind, just as she did with her own. I tried to talk to her, but she wasn't having any of it."

"Connie, mentioned," George said slowly, as though trying to decide whether she should say it. "That you had a somewhat fiery exchange of views. She didn't tell me what was said, and I have no desire to know what was said, but I think I know why it happened. From talking to Connie, both when she was in prison, and since she was released, I have begun to learn how she deals with particularly traumatic events. In effect, she does precisely what John does in a crisis, she tries her damnedest to return to something normal, something she understands, to be blunt, the one thing she knows best."

"You mean sex," Ric replied, realising just how true this statement really was.

"Yes," George told him succinctly. "Connie uses sex in the same way as John does, as her primary form of communication. She finds it difficult to talk about her feelings, so she uses sex to do that for her. When Connie wanted to sleep with you last weekend, what she actually wanted to say was that she was sorry for not letting you know about the baby, that she was sorry for losing it, and that she wanted to try in her own way to make that up to you." Ric stared at her in stunned amazement.

"I thought that she was trying to make me forget about it, which was why I was so angry with her."

"Trying to make herself forget about it, at least for a while perhaps, but not you. She is trying to regain the person she was before prison."

"I wish I'd known that," Ric said a little sadly.

"Well you do know now, which might help the next time you speak to her. But I suspect that the more you try to talk to her, the more she may push you away. Try to allow her to come back to you in her own time."

"And sleep with every other male in the vicinity in the meantime."

"Possibly," George admitted ruefully, thinking of where Connie almost certainly was now.

When George had finished her meal, having eaten most of the chicken and all of the salad, Karen looked at her and asked,

"Are you all right?"

"Extremely full," George admitted ruefully. "Do you mind if I go and sit over there and have a cigarette?"

"Feel free," Karen told her kindly, knowing that George probably needed the cigarette to settle her stomach.

"George," Ric asked her. "Precisely why did you think it a good idea for one of Connie's trial judges to shadow her for a day?"

"Because I want the jury to receive a documented, thoroughly unbiased view as to what Connie does on a day to day basis. I thought that this might help them to realise that never in a million years would Connie set out to murder one of her patients."

"I hardly think that the judge could be said to be unbiased where Connie is concerned."

"They won't know that though, will they," George replied, provoking a laugh from Karen.

"You do know where Connie very likely is tonight, don't you," Ric said quietly.

"Yes, I am ninety five percent sure of where she is, with John." Having also finished eating his dinner, and seeing that Karen was in a similar position, he asked,

"Doesn't it bother you?"

"That John is almost certainly sleeping with Connie, no not really."

"Can I ask why?" He said, coming to sit back down in the armchair where he'd sat before, whilst Karen took her seat at the other end of the sofa to George.

"It would bother me far more, if I didn't know the woman John may or may not be with. Yes, Connie may entertain John for a night or two, maybe more as they get to know each other, but she will never emotionally take him away from me. I would far rather be well aware of when John is going to sleep with somebody else and who that may be, than to stumble on it unawares as I did back in February. At the time, that hurt like hell, something that I am not eager to repeat."

"That still doesn't answer my question as to why you can so easily accept John's sleeping with other women."

"When I was married to John, I made him unable to continue to uphold the part of the vow that says 'Keep thee only unto me.' I caused him to go looking for something better, someone who wasn't coming apart at the seams, someone who hadn't done him the worst of all wrongs." Ric watched her, seeing that he had unwittingly disturbed the tomb of the forbidden subject where George was concerned. Everybody had them, he knew that, and it appeared as though he had just stumbled on George's. Before he could tentatively probe any further, George seemed to realise precisely to whom she was speaking. "Ask Karen," She said, getting up from the sofa. "It's time I left."

"George, you don't have to go," Karen told her quietly.

"Yes, I do," George replied, fishing for her car keys. "Or I'll say far more than is good for any of us." As she paused by Ric's chair, she laid a hand on his shoulder. "You shouldn't be quite so fatally easy to talk to." Ric could see the faint signs of tears in her beautiful blue eyes, and in that moment, he wanted more than anything to put his arms round her, and to hold her against his chest, to allow her to shed all those pent up feelings, those feelings that would very soon slip their leash, if she didn't do something to excise them. As Karen walked George out to her car, she couldn't help but be worried about her.

"You're very mixed up tonight, aren't you," She said when they were standing by George's car.

"Yes, but I'm sure that I'll get over it." Putting her arms round her, Karen gently held her.

"If I didn't think it would confuse you even more," She said into George's hair. "I would persuade you to stay."

"That's what's so stupid about this," George told her miserably. "Part of me would give anything to be with John and Connie right now, and the other part of me would like to stay here, with you and Ric, because I know that between you, you could both make me feel a hell of a lot better than I do now."

"So which is it to be?" Karen asked with a slight smile.

"Neither, because the way I feel right now, I wouldn't be any use to any of you. Besides, I very much doubt that Ric would want to sleep with someone when his first instinct would be to force feed them. So, I'm taking the third option and going home."

"Will you be all right?" Karen asked, not wanting to let George go home alone in the least.

"I'll be fine," George told her unconvincingly, a few tears escaping down her cheeks. Drawing slightly back from her, Karen wiped the tears away with the pads of her thumbs, and gently placed her lips on George's. George almost fiercely kissed her back, needing something, some form of contact, anything that would get her through the long night to come.

When Karen returned inside, she found Ric sitting staring thoughtfully into his glass.

"Is she all right?" He asked, watching Karen as she poured herself another drink.

"No, not really. She said that she couldn't decide whether she wanted to be with John and Connie, or here with us."

"That's some decision," Ric replied meditatively.

"So, she chose the third option and went home, because she said that she wouldn't be any use to any of us." Ric winced, having felt the confusion and misery coming off George in waves as she'd left.

"There's something about her," Ric began, unable to describe what he meant.

"Something that makes you want to hold her and never let her go," Karen finished for him. "I know, and the more you get to know her, the more that feeling intensifies at times like this."

"What happened to make her need to punish herself quite so mercilessly?"

"If I'm going to tell you about that," Karen said, sitting back down on the sofa. "You can come over here and give me a cuddle, because you look far too lonely over there in that armchair." Smiling softly at her, Ric put his glass down on the coffee table and moved to sit down next to her, putting his arms around this woman whom he'd known for what felt like half his life.

"It's quite simple really," Karen began, her cheek resting against Ric's shoulder. "When George discovered she was pregnant with their daughter, when she'd been married to John for about two years, she knew that she didn't have it in her to be a mother. If it had happened a few years later, things might have been different, but I doubt it. I think that the only reason she continued with the pregnancy was because a child was the one thing John had always wanted. He knew absolutely nothing of how she felt, because she did a masterly act of keeping it from him. So, when Charlie finally appeared, John was ecstatic, George's father could play the proud grandfather, and George had to keep her feeling of apathy towards Charlie deeply hidden."

"Which was why she stopped eating," Ric surmised sadly.

"Yes. I asked John about it once, and he said that whilst George might not have loved her daughter, she did everything a mother is supposed to do for their child, even breast fed her."

"That's some mind game," Ric said, a little in awe of what George had tried to achieve.

"The phrase you're looking for is head fuck," Karen told him glibly. "But you're right, because all that guilt had to come out somehow, which is why she stopped eating. Charlie was six months old when John realised what George was doing, and when he demanded an explanation, George had to tell him that she didn't love the daughter he'd given her."

"But that wasn't her fault," Ric insisted vehemently. "No one can predict how they will feel at the birth of a child."

"I know that and you know that," Karen agreed with him. "But George thought it was the worst thing she could possibly have done to John. So, because she felt guilty for not loving Charlie, she wouldn't let John anywhere near her, thinking that she didn't deserve his or anyone's love. John didn't understand why George wouldn't even let him cuddle her, so he started taking comfort elsewhere. When she discovered what he was doing every time he worked away from home, she began sleeping with him again, because she didn't want to lose him altogether, but she regularly didn't enjoy it, and by that time, John had got the taste for extra-marital flings."

"That really is a screwed up set of circumstances," Ric said when Karen had finished her tale.

"It explains a lot though, doesn't it." Agreeing that it did, Ric sat in silence for a while, mulling over everything Karen had told him. It certainly explained why George, even after all this time, was able to summon up the necessary feeling of guilt to starve herself. It explained why John didn't appear able to curtail what Karen had earlier in the year described as his addiction to sex. Ric was further forced to admit that if simple, uncomplicated sex was what Connie needed right now, she couldn't possibly do better than to look in John's direction for it.

"Does George have feelings for Connie?" Ric asked into the silence.

"Would it bother you if she did?" Karen asked in return.

"No, I don't think so," Ric mused. "Though how much Connie would return them, I'm not sure."

"And how would you feel if Connie did return them?"

"I don't think I'd feel in any way threatened," Ric thought aloud. "Because that kind of relationship with a woman is obviously something I can't give her."

"I don't know Connie particularly well, but I do know that she really did miss you when she was in prison." After a few moments' thought, Ric said,

"You miss George, don't you."

"On nights like tonight, yes, very much so," Karen admitted honestly. "Just as I think you're currently missing Connie." As she tilted her face up to his, Ric realised what she was suggesting. When she kissed him, igniting that spark that had been dormant all week, kept in check whilst he worked alongside Connie but was unable to touch her, Ric knew that sleeping together might just make both he and Karen feel better.

"Is this really what you want?" He asked when they came up for air.

"Yes," She said, that very simple word holding all the explanation he needed.

Clothes were rapidly discarded as they moved from sofa to bedroom, both of them reacquainting themselves with the other, discovering the changes that fifteen years had undoubtedly wrought. When they were at last beneath the duvet of Karen's bed, hands wandering, kisses becoming more and more frantic, Ric said,

"It's more than fifteen years since I last made love to you."

"And I have no doubt that some things have changed," Karen replied, though not feeling remotely self-conscious with this man she knew so well.

"It's nice to know that these haven't," Ric told her, his hands gently massaging her magnificent breasts, the pads of his thumbs grazing her nipples. Lowering his head, he took one of her nipples between his lips, caressing it with his tongue in the way he knew she'd always liked. But when he slid a questing hand between her legs, he found something that he wasn't expecting. Instead of the neatly clipped blonde hair he vaguely remembered on Karen, he found the perfectly smooth skin of the perpetually shaved.

"That's new," He said, smirking up at her. Karen laughed.

"Believe me, giving head to a woman without it is undoubtedly much nicer."

"That's given me a mental image that is definitely worth holding onto," Ric said as he moved his hand on her, finding to his delight that she really was incredibly aroused.

"Do tell," Karen encouraged, wanting to know what he was thinking.

"You and George," Ric told her simply. "It's incredible."

"She certainly is incredible," Karen said, her voice filled with passion. "Definitely the most beautiful body I've ever had in this bed."

"Now you're just teasing me," Ric said with a broad smile, moving down to take in that taste that he had never forgotten.

"Believe it," Karen promised him. "George has many a time lain precisely where you are now." Groaning in pleasure at the thought, he fastened his mouth onto her, thrusting his tongue into her entrance, and sucking skilfully on her clitoris, reminding Karen of just what she had been missing over the last year. She hadn't slept with anyone since going to bed with John at that never to be forgotten conference, and it appeared now that she had been saving up all her explosive passion for this very event. Suddenly wanting to feel Ric inside her, wanting to be joined with him as nature had intended, she touched his shoulder and encouraged him back up to meet her gaze. Seeming to realise what she wanted, he settled between her eagerly spread thighs and slid effortlessly inside her.

"Now that's something I could never forget," Karen told him. "Feeling filled almost beyond capacity." Ric laughed, kissing her deeply as he began to move. As they clung together during their coupling, it seemed to both of them that the past fifteen years had dropped away. Their bodies might have slightly altered with their increasing age, many good and bad things might have happened to both of them, but what remained was what had always been there, an appreciation of who the other was, faults and all. It was a meeting of minds, a joining of bodies, but above all an uncovering of souls, a returning to the deep and lasting friendship that they once had known.


	58. Chapter 58

**Part Fifty-Eight**

Many disruptive changes had gone on in Ric's life over the years, including marriage, divorce the odd remarriage, and finally kicking his gambling habit and his biggest achievement was to come out at the other end, still ready to engage in the game of life. Right now, he had his hands full enough with the conundrum that Connie Beauchamp posed. The advantage was that he found himself better able to deal with his life than he had in the past.

All through the course of Ric's professional career, the dependable friendship with Zubin had sustained him. They made a curiously balanced partnership inside St Mary's and outside, the suavely mannered Zubin with his propensity to seize the moral high ground balancing against Ric's personality that could veer between the pragmatic and impulsive. While his relationship with Connie remained indeterminate, it was a relief for him to get away from his cares when Zubin casually suggested that he come round for a meal. What the hell, he thought, as was his habit, the companionship beyond the limited professional contact in the busy world of St. Mary's hospital would do him good. Besides, his taste buds reminded him that Zubin was no indifferent bachelor chef but someone who enjoyed the culinary arts in itself.

Meanwhile Zubin had arrived home early at his very spick and span flat as befitted a man of fastidious manners. His kitchen was his preserve and he carefully arranged the ingredients neatly on the back of the work surface next to his cooker. A green pepper, onion, several tomatoes, a tube of tomato puree, a bottle of Schwartz hot chili powder, a tin of red kidney beans and a portion of lean minced beef. He reached immediately for his well worn chopping board, a razor sharp knife and a large onion, expertly removing the outside brown layers, first slicing it into neat circles and then dividing up each circle into geometric angles. With similar precision, he dissected and removed the core from the pepper. As a classical CD played in the background, his rapid coordination started to transfer the ingredients one by one to his large frying pan as he gradually conjured up the meal to his desired standard.

In the meantime, Ric drove over with a bottle of wine as his contribution and came in as Zubin was in the middle of his cooking. He pushed open the front door which was on the latch, knowing that it suited his friend's purpose for Ric to let himself in. The cooking smells would have drawn him to the kitchen even if his knowledge of Zubin's habits hadn't directed him to the right place.

"Well, St Mary's feels back to normal again," Ric said with great satisfaction as he laid the bottle of wine on the table.

"Normal, as in Connie Beauchamp being even more authoritarian than she usually is," Zubin said dryly, as he slid the chopped tomatoes into the mix while stirring the beef that was gently browning in another pan. Carrying on a conversation with Ric's voice behind him while he carried on with the cooking was something that both men were used to.

"You know Connie. If she's under pressure, she's hardly likely to be weepy and sentimental in public."

Zubin laughed in a fashion that only partially concealed an undertone of affection for the woman. When Connie Beauchamp had first started work at St. Mary's, she had set to work in ensuring that she collected the scalps on her sexual belt of her male colleagues as a rather unique form of bonding exercise. Zubin had always held himself in reserve and had observed her at a distance.

"You and Connie haven't always seen eye to eye," said Ric in semi joking terms that enabled him to confront people without causing unpleasantness.

"We have had our differences in the past," Zubin said as he stirred the red kidney beans into the concoction as he immersed himself into a similar mix of ideas with Ric. "Despite all this, I have had the highest respect for her professionalism and as soon as I heard about the charges laid against Connie Beauchamp, I considered them as both monstrous and absurd. You know my style of smooth diplomacy, Ric. I can sense the pressure she's under without being fool enough to be openly sensitive and sympathetic towards her."

It was Ric's turn to laugh. He knew enough of the Connie Beauchamp that was kept private and how it related to her public persona.

"I know that she knows what I'm doing and that's enough," added Zubin as he stirred the beef vigorously into the frying pan. Ric fell silent, as this was answer enough. Besides, he knew that, at this point, Zubin wanted to concentrate on the extra spicing he needed to give the meal the precise desired flavour. The friendship between the two of them had evolved to the point that, if either of them remained silent, the other wouldn't ask questions. The cooking smells wafted round the kitchen and made Ric hungrier than normal.

"So there's one question I'm very curious about and that is just why Diane is batting for the opposition?" Zubin said in semi-joking tones as he indicated to Ric that dinner was nearly ready. "I understand that Will hates her guts, the proverbial chalk and cheese but Diane's different."

" I don't suppose that my obvious identification with Connie's case has helped any. You must understand that I nearly ended up marrying Diane when she was in med school and she couldn't deal with me when I had that gambling phase. Mind you, when I look back at some of the stunts I pulled, I can't exactly blame her."

"But that doesn't make sense Ric. We're talking about the here and now and Diane has no right to make you carry that cross forever. Besides, we're talking about Connie, not you." "Not if Diane's jealous of my closeness to Connie. She's never at her best in frankly admitting to her emotions. As for expressing them, that's a whole different ball game, one that she can't play. The trouble is that she doesn't know the half that's going on."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Zubin said sympathetically as he gently stirred the rice in the saucepan.

"I will but not right now, Zubin. The time isn't right ehen my stomach is clamouring out for the receipt of your delicious dinner and if it means you ruining it. There's a limit to your multi-tasking. I'll be better talking about affairs of the heart after dinner," Ric said, grinning in reply.

Zubin looked a little sheepishly at the way the rice was threatening to be overcooked. He immediately leaped to the dinner's defence, while Ric busied himself with setting the table as normal. Pretty soon, two plates of hot spicy dinner were served in front of them with a glass of wine each and both of them tucked into the dinner. Zubin fortunately hadn't served the spices with a light hand and the meal was very pleasantly eaten and digested. It left them with that nice feeling of satisfaction as they finished. When they cleared everything away, Ric measured the point in time that would be shortly coming when he would have to talk. The truth was that Zubin was about the only person whom he could talk to who was also outside the situation.

"So, what's been troubling you, Ric," Zubin gently asked.

"It's complicated," Ric said shortly.

"When anyone says that to me," Zubin pursued gently, "it's as if there's a hot meal in the oven and that person is afraid to reach out and grasp it."

"Without a tea towel?" questioned Ric with a crooked smile. "I'd say that person was very sensible in not wanting to get his fingers burnt. After all, I should know."

"You know what I mean Ric," Zubin said in his gentlest tones. Ric knew that he had to stop deflecting his feelings with wisecracks and get to the point.

"All right, I had a row with Connie a week ago. It started off about just how close we wanted to get. You know the sort of thing that I thought that she thought and getting it wrong. I accused her of being cold towards me when I had declined a very charming offer to sleep with her."

"Complicated is right. These are deep waters," Zubin said, an expression of concern on his face. He knew that Connie wasn't an easy person to unravel and he suspected that getting this close would multiply this factor. This was leaving aside her very real reasons for concern with her life, namely to beat the rap for a crime that had been very effectively pinned on her.

"She went on to say, and I quote her very words 'I would have given birth to your daughter, and I would have loved her and brought her up to the best of my ability,'" Ric said in stilted tones which made Zubin instantly conclude that quoting Connie's words was his easiest way of dealing with their content.

"She surely wasn't blaming you for what happened?" questioned Zubin, his tone of voice acknowledging that the explanation was tenuous at best even as he spoke the words.

"Let's just say that I was the closest person available for to hit out when she can't make sense of her own life. For her to push me away is the only way she knows how to deal with what's happening to her. I understand this and I feel sorry for her more than anything else. That was a week ago and since then, she's only been speaking to me in professional terms only."

"It sounds to me that time is on your side," reasoned Zubin with as much persuasion in his voice as he could summon up."

"It's more complicated than that. It might be an unfortunate way of putting it but I feel that time is a card dealer, picking cards off the bottom of the pack at random," Ric said with a tight smile on his face that betrayed the depths of Ric's concern more vividly than ever. "I really don't know what will happen as there's another factor at work."

"And what's that?" Zubin asked. Even as he spoke the words, he knew very well where this was leading to as he recalled when he had seen John Deed perfectly at home while Connie had removed her blood-stained shirt while exchanging it for another.

"I can't put it into words but I'm certain that Connie would have spent Friday night with John, the day he spent the day observing Connie in action in a professional function," Ric said in a deliberately controlled fashion.

"And what makes you feel so certain that this is the case?" Zubin asked.

"When we finished that operation, I could feel Connie's nerves jangling at me but she let John approach her when, by all the odds, she would have bitten his head off. He also strikes me as a suave, sophisticated man of the world, who is sufficiently distanced away from her situation.

"In other words, rather like you."

"Yes. You could say that," Ric said slowly and deliberately as he carefully thought Zubin's insight through. He couldn't work out for the life of him if it made him feel better or worse.

"So where does this leave you. You know that I'll back up whatever you do within reason, " Zubin said in earnest tones after a long pause for reflection. His timing for when to speak was immaculate.

"Smart guy," Ric said, attempting to laugh, "that's the mark of a real friend, not wanting to promise what you can't or won't deliver. You've seen me when I have acted totally unreasonably. The way I see the situation is that I haven't any choice in the matter of what Connie does or doesn't do. Rather than getting worked up and emotional about the matter, it makes far more sense to simply accept the situation as it is. If physical comfort is what she's looking for, I should be glad she can find it somewhere."

"And are you breaking the habits of a lifetime in being sensible?" Zubin pursued. For a second, he regretted his words as he saw his friend's jaw muscles tighten momentarily before smiling in an indefinable fashion and shrugging his shoulders.

"I've got to do so some time. The trouble with living on the edge is that sooner or later, you fall off it."

"Has it helped me being here? I know that sometimes I've been pushing my luck.

"Zubin, if you hadn't invited me over, I would have felt pretty stupid inventing my own questions and answering my own questions. You've known me well enough just how far to go."

This time, Ric's grin was real and expressed his feelings of relief in being able to talk where the situation wasn't going to be fraught.


	59. Chapter 59

Part Fifty Nine

On the Monday morning, as Connie was preparing for a heart and lung transplant, Tom popped his head round her office door.

"Do you mind if I assist on this one?" He asked.

"No, of course not," Connie replied amiably, her evening with John on Friday having left her in quite a good mood. "But what about Will? I know he had an interest in this one."

"Ah," Tom said knowingly. "But Mr. Curtis did manage to tell me, that he would rather not be in the same room as you, if you're still in the strop you were in on Friday, his words not mine."

"Well, as it happens, I'm not, but if Mr. Curtis can't be bothered to get himself a thicker skin, I would far rather he kept his distance, for now, until I'm in the mood for reshaping his character." Tom laughed.

"Haven't you tried that one fairly unsuccessfully already?"

"It's an ongoing battle," Connie said ruefully. "Actually, she said, retrieving a CD from her handbag, "There's something I want you and Zubin to listen to, and this operation appears to be the perfect opportunity."

As they walked down the corridor towards theatre, Connie reflected on her previous afternoon's activity. As it had been a dreary Sunday in November, she had spent the entire afternoon with her feet up on the sofa, listening to the recording of 'The Creation' that John had copied for her, pouring out of the stereo speakers in her living room. Since Michael had moved out, Connie had the house to herself, meaning that she need answer to nothing and no one, as the Julies would say, and she had taken full advantage of this to thoroughly enjoy the music. George's voice was pure, delicate, and yet at the same time so richly full of body that it made Connie shiver to listen to it. She was interested in playing it to Tom and Zubin, to see if either of them could work out that it was her singing, seeing as they both knew her well.

"Are you assisting today, Tom?" Zubin asked in surprise when they appeared.

"It seems that Mr. Curtis," Connie said with a certain amount of satisfaction. "Is somewhat keen to avoid my spiky barbs this morning."

"Well, after being kicked out of your theatre on Friday, I can hardly blame him," Zubin said reasonably.

"You're not supposed to take his side," Connie said disgustedly. "He just needs to learn a little self-preservation, that's all." Handing her CD to the theatre sister, Connie said, "I've got something a little different for you all to listen to this morning. I'm in the mood for classical for a change, so I hope none of you mind."

"As long as it's not opera," Zubin replied laconically.

"Not quite," Connie said as they encircled the anaesthetized patient. "But I want to see if either of you can recognise the soprano soloist, as you do both know her."

"You up for a challenge, Zubin?" Tom asked, clearly looking forward to it.

"You're on," Zubin replied, never one to pass up a chance of beating Tom at anything.

As they worked their way methodically through the process of removing the patient's highly defective heart and lungs, with him on bypass, they listened to the solely instrumental overture of Chaos.

"You say we know this woman," Tom broke into the peaceful hush. "Does that mean this was an amateur performance?"

"Yes," Connie said with a smirk. "I believe it was what one person called an employer's idea of a team building exercise."

"They're bloody good for amateurs," Tom said appreciatively.

"Probably because most of them were brought up at public school," Connie said dismissively.

"Don't ever try to get us doing something quite so innovative, will you," Zubin told her, clearly a refusal to take part even if she did. Then, when Zubin heard the initial words that began the story, he said, "Connie, do we have to listen to something quite so religious?"

"Most choral music is, Zubin," Tom said reasonably. "Just ignore it in favour of the music."

"That's what I always do," Connie said, her eyes fixed on the major blood vessels she was in the process of separating. When the tenor soloist entered, and Tom began unobtrusively humming along with him, Connie briefly looked up and smiled. "So, you are well acquainted with the works of Haydn then, are you?"

"Of course," He told her blandly. "I knew what this was as soon as it began."

"Jesus," Zubin said in complete disgust. "You surgeons are all the same, all into classical music, and all of you just love extolling its virtues." Connie laughed.

"Not quite right, Professor Khan, you would hardly catch Mr. Griffin or Mr. Davis, or god forbid, Mr. Hussain listening to classical music if they could possibly avoid it." When the chorus moved into full swing, they all began to appreciate the theatre's acoustic, the sound reverberating in the high ceilinged room as if meant to be played there all along.

But when the oboes began the introduction to the first soprano soloist's song, Connie held up a hand.

"This is it," She said. "See if you can recognise her." They kept on working as they listened, and eventually, Zubin began to look as though he was on the tail of something.

"It's the S's," He said into the silence. "I'd know those anywhere, but I can't quite place them."

"Making absolutely no sense as usual," Tom said with a smile.

"Oh, honestly!" Connie said eventually, not able to hold out any longer. "You two wouldn't recognise a woman if she stood deliciously naked in front of you. It's George Channing!"

"You're kidding," Tom said in utter amazement. "Little Miss Channing making a noise like that?"

"The very same," Connie said almost proudly. "Bloody marvelous, isn't she."

"It's still her S's that give her away," Zubin said in triumph. "Otherwise there's no way I'd ever have recognised her."

"Just listen to this next bit," Connie told him, as George approached her rise up to the sixth octave C.

"Jesus Christ," Tom said, thoroughly impressed. "And the amount she smokes, she really shouldn't be able to do that."

"So, who else was part of this?" Zubin asked.

"It was the Bar counsel's idea," Connie filled in. "John Deed was the lead violinist, Jo Mills played the cello, and George's father conducted. Oh, and the judge who sat as a winger in Barbara Mills' trial, he sang the tenor solo, and Barbara Mills I am told, played the harpsichord. Otherwise, it was mostly people from the legal profession, with others taking necessary roles to fill up any gaps, one being filled by my prison governor as it happens."

"No wonder you like sleeping with that Judge so much," Tom said in realisation. "It's because he's so good with his bow."

"Oh, and does the same apply to your beloved Jo Mills?" Connie taunted sweetly.

"Jo Mills isn't my anything, well, not really," Tom replied smoothly. "So I couldn't possibly tell you."

"Thousands may believe you, Mr. Campbell-Gore, but I do not."

"I notice you didn't deny sleeping with John Deed," Zubin observed mildly.

"Drop it, Zubin," Connie told him curtly.

"Why, afraid you might be mistreating just how much Ric cares for you?" Zubin responded smartly.

"Do as the lady says, Zubin," Tom warned quietly. "Just drop it, at least for now, I'm enjoying this music too much for an argument."

As they prepared to remove the new heart and lungs from the ice, the next solo began, with the strings in a furious dance to illustrate the roaring waves of the sea, pounding relentlessly against the rocks. Absent mindedly picking up a scalpel, Connie stood there, so easily slipping into conducting a few bars of the piece, the nicely sharpened blade whistling through the air in front of her, briefly making Tom think of the guillotine, and Marie Antoinette, swinging the blade down to cut off some poor bastard's head.

"That does present a somewhat macabre image," He told her, breaking in on her total immersion in the music.

"Yes, I suppose it does, might teach Mr. Curtis a thing or two though." As they delicately lifted the new heart and lungs from the icy water, the freezing droplets running from the slippery flesh, George's next solo began.

"Her voice really is beautiful," Zubin said in awe. "I wonder why she didn't take it up professionally."

"Too eager to follow in Daddy's footsteps, I suspect," Connie said matter-of-factly. There was such a look of pure wonder on her face as she listened, George's incredible talent having a marked effect on her, that Tom and Zubin exchanged a smile. As they began the long and arduous task of knitting the new set of blood vessels with the old, a time consuming process that could take them up to an hour and a half, they barely spoke, working for once in complete harmony, the music on the CD washing over them, bathing them in a feeling of tranquility and total serenity, something they rarely experienced in such a setting. They felt momentarily separated from the rest of the world, confined to their stage of choice, and accompanied by an orchestra and choir of true angels to aid them in their task.

"I'd loved to have seen them perform this," Tom said at one point.

"Yes," Connie agreed. "That certainly would have been an experience. The Bass soloist got the CD made just on a whim, and used a group photograph for the cover. I don't think I've ever seen George look so happy as she does in that picture."

"Music can sometimes bring out the best in us," Tom said thoughtfully. "Maybe I should get to know Jo Mills a little better after all."

"You're utterly disreputable, the pair of you," Zubin said as if to two naughty children. "That relationship doesn't need any more complications than its already got."

"Actually, Zubin does happen to be right on that score," Connie said a little regretfully. "They could all three do without either of us making things worse."

"Oh, I didn't know that either of us had any designs on George herself," Tom said almost seductively, knowing he had lured Connie well and truly into the trap.

"That a nice little habit you picked up in prison, is it?" Zubin asked, not quite so nicely.

"That's absolutely none of your business," Connie told him with a slight blush. "Though as one inmate did put it to me, you have to take your comfort where you can get it in a place like that."

"And did you?" Tom asked with a smirk.

"No, as it happens, I didn't," Connie told him firmly.

When they reached the fairly frantic piece, 'The Lord is great', Connie and Tom exchanged a glance of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

"God, that's almost as good as an archetypal aphrodisiac," Connie said in wonder, feeling the unmistakable build of heat between her legs. As George again and again soared up to the top B-flat, Connie sucked in a breath between her teeth, as she felt the adrenalin rising in her veins.

"Connie, you look like you're about to explode," Zubin said with a broad smile, recognising the sexual arousal that was coming off her in waves.

"Play this track a few more times, and I just might," She replied without looking up at him.

"It's almost as invigorating as a large scotch," Tom had to agree, as he and Connie continued suturing the delicate fibres of pulmonary veins and arteries. When the piece reached its climactic chord, Connie couldn't help but groan into the resulting silence.

"And I never thought that music could be quite such a turn on," Zubin said with a laugh.

"Oh, don't you believe it," Connie drawled seductively, her hands never halting in their task. Tom was inwardly forced to admit that the music was steadily having the same effect on him. He had always been a sincere fan of particular types of classical music, but this really was something else, perhaps because it was done purely for pleasure, and not for some sort of monetary gain, as with professional musicians. They must have put so much work into this, so much time and effort to achieve such clarity of tone and delicacy of diction.

As the performance continued, alongside their own, it occurred to both Tom and Connie at different intervals that they, in their own way, were creating life, just as God was in Haydn's music. They had taken a healthy heart and lungs from the victim of a motorbike accident, and were using them to prolong and vastly improve the life of their patient. When Christian Barnard, completed the first successful heart transplant in 1967, he had discovered the true miracle of life, far more tangible than that of the seven day wonder. Now here they were, thirty-nine years later, continuing the work of that marvelous discovery. Being two extremely competent cardio thoracic surgeons, both Connie and tom were well acquainted with the feeling of triumph on successfully completing one of these operations, but today it somehow had an extra frisson about it. Was it the music? Or was it working in tandem like this, neither of them knew. But when they reached the slower of the two love duets, Connie found herself gently swaying in time to the music, her hands seeming as though detached from her languidly moving body.

"You can't dance in scrubs, Connie," Zubin told her.

"Professor Khan," She replied softly. "You can do absolutely anything, whilst wearing scrubs."

"She is quite right you know, Zubin," Tom agreed with her, being captured thoroughly by the mood as she was. As they began knitting together the very fine skin sutures, reconnecting the intercostal muscles to provide a barrier of protection between the new organs and the outer world, the second love duet began.

"I wonder if she acted this, rather than just sang it," Zubin speculated.

"Probably," Connie said with a smile. "You remember what she was like in court, just as well as I do."

"I bet she made a stunning Eve," Tom said contemplatively, provoking a low, husky laugh from Connie.

"I don't doubt it," She said with total certainty. "The only time I've ever seen George look remotely unattractive, was after her surgery, and even then she managed to look that kind of vulnerable, understated kind of beautiful, that only blonde haired, blue-eyed women can look."

"You have been studying her closely, haven't you," Tom drawled in delighted satisfaction.

"Of course I have, she's my lawyer," Connie said decisively. "It would ruin my image to have an unattractive advocate." When Tom began to sing, Connie looked up and smiled.

"Tom, give it a rest," Zubin complained.

"It's called culture, professor Khan, you should try it some time," Connie told him curtly. Tom's voice wound in and out of George's lines, just as the Adam on the CD did, surprising Connie enormously. But when he reached the progressively harder lines of 'With thee', he stopped to listen, not wanting to in any way ruin the full power of the harmonies. As they tied off the last few stitches in the outer layer of skin, the performance finally reached its close, leaving a throbbing, humming silence in its wake.

Connie couldn't escape that feeling of anticipation as she cleaned up in the scrub room afterwards, the nailbrush moving furiously back and forth over her nails, scrubbing away every germ known to man. Coming to stand next to her at the sink, Tom couldn't fail to notice her heightened colour, or the rigid, nervous tension in her entire body. She was as sexually strung up as he was, and it was a state of affairs that needed instant relief, for both of them. Knowing that he never would have dreamt of doing this in any other circumstance, Tom dried his hands on the paper towels provided, and laid his right one on Connie's shoulder.

"You look very, invigorated," He said, slightly hesitating over the right word for the situation.

"You could say that," She replied in that low, seductive drawl that had brought weaker men to their knees.

"Was that just the music that did that to you," He asked with a smirk. "Or was it George Channing's voice?"

"Probably a bit of both," She admitted with a slight laugh.

"And how, precisely, to you intend to alleviate your discomfort?" He asked, moving his hand up from her shoulder, to push a strand of slightly ruffled hair behind her ear.

"That depends," Connie replied, quickly catching on. "On whether or not you wish to assist me, in alleviating my discomfort as you put it."

"Aha, but I think the question is, would you like me to assist you?"

"Well now," Connie said thoughtfully, turning towards him to examine him thoroughly, her burning eyes taking in every inch of him. "I should imagine that just this once, that could be rather enjoyable." Removing her CD from the theatre CD-player, she led the way back to her office, with all the nonchalance of a surgeon discussing a patient with her colleague, not giving any passing mortal any inkling of what was in both their minds.

As soon as the office door closed behind them, Tom turned Connie to face him. There was a heightened colour in her cheeks, a brightness in her eyes that he couldn't fail to understand.

"Don't just stand there looking pretty, Mr. Campbell-Gore," She said seductively. "I do believe you came back here for a reason."

"Now I know why you drive so many men insane, Connie Beauchamp," Tom said with a smirk, resting his hands on her shoulders and slowly pulling her against him. Their lips met with such an urgency of exploration, that it caught them both in a whirlwind of passion that would have knocked a weaker being out of the race.

"I don't usually make a habit of this," Tom said as they virtually tore at each other's clothes, desperately seeking skin-to-skin contact as quickly as possible.

"Well, as it happens that I do, or at least I used to, I really wouldn't give it a thought," Connie replied, as they moved haphazardly towards her desk.

"You're beautiful," He said as her blouse and skirt were unceremoniously cast aside.

"Yes, so my mirror tells me daily," She told him dismissively, making him laugh.

"You really do like to hide behind the ego, don't you," He said, reaching behind her to unhook her bra.

"Trying to recapture my ego, might be a more accurate assessment," She corrected, divesting herself of her knickers, and hitching herself up onto the edge of her desk, simultaneously starting on his belt and shirt buttons. As his hands began to move over her soft, supple body, she swept her right arm behind her, sending papers, pens, stapler and hole punch to the floor, scattering all her possessions far and wide.

"Do we need to worry about consequences?" He asked her, one hand moving over her hardening nipples, and the other delving between her legs, finding her delightfully ready for him. Thinking of Saturday morning and how John had risen to the occasion with all his former glory, Connie said,

"I need to get the morning after pill anyway," Her voice a little unsteady from her mounting arousal. "Might as well sort out two for the price of one."

"I don't know whether or not to be insulted," He said with a laugh between kisses.

"Don't be," She tried to reassure him. "I'm behaving like a real tart at the moment, so I would simply enjoy it if I were you." As she said this, she wrapped a skilful hand around him, finding to her immense satisfaction that he was as ready for this as she was. With a groan of ecstasy, he pushed her back on the now cleared desk, wrapped his arms round her and plunged himself inside her. For a very much-unforeseen quickie, Connie couldn't help but think that this was turning out to be a particular success. He filled her substantially enough, and was certainly making an effort to give her as much pleasure as he was getting from her. Removing one arm from around her, he sought out her clitoris, his fingers deftly stroking her towards her own climax. When he felt her internal muscles beginning to twitch around him, he sped up his thrusts, kissing her long and hard as they came, swallowing her brief cry of passion.

As their breathing returned to normal, he rested against her for a moment, eventually withdrawing from her, and placing a chased kiss on her cheek. They didn't look at each other as they hurriedly regained their clothes, because Tom could feel her unhappiness on the air as heavy as the mist that so often crept in over the Thames estuary. Connie simply didn't know what to say to him. This was Tom, someone she'd worked with for quite some time now, someone she respected, and whom she'd thought respected her. How could he respect her now? She felt so cheap, so disgusted with herself and what she had done, that she couldn't see how anyone could look on her with anything more than total contempt. Before he left, Tom walked over to her where she was stood in front of the mirror on her office wall, and turned her to face him, keeping one hand on her shoulder.

"Connie, that ego of yours, you'll get it back far quicker, if you don't try so hard."

"I... I wish I could believe that," She said a little hesitantly, feeling the tears prickling behind her eyelids.

"You will," He tried to reassure her, seeing the depths of pain and uncertainty that were currently rising to the surface. "Once all this mess is over."

"You don't think me terrible for just having done that?" She asked, desperately needing that tiny hint of reassurance.

"No, of course I don't," He said, putting his arms round her and feeling the rigidity in every muscle. "Besides, I'm hardly in a position to do so, am I? Connie, clinging onto any remnant of normality you can find, is perfectly understandable, so no, I don't think any less of you for doing that. If I were in your position, I'd have come off the wagon ages ago, which believe me, would have been far more catastrophic, than you trying to sleep with the entire male population before your trial."

"Bloody cheek," She said with a shaky laugh. "I'm not that bad."

"Well, there you are then," He said, pleased to have finally provoked a smile out of her. When he left her office, leaving her to try to gather together everything she'd swept so hurriedly from her desk, he was forced to wonder just how she really would get through the coming weeks.

But as he was walking down the corridor towards the nurses' station, he saw George coming towards him. Used to thinking on his feet, he decided that Connie would probably want a few minutes to sort herself out before receiving visitors, even this one. Walking up to her, he quietly broke into a few well-remembered lines from 'The Creation'.

"Graceful consort, at thy side, softly fly the golden hours..."

"I wouldn't have had you down for playing Adam," She said, breaking in on his rendition of the second love duet, his liking for the music having raised a broad smile in her.

"And I wouldn't have had you down for playing Eve," He told her smoothly. "But appearances can be deceptive."

"Who told you?" George asked, now a little embarrassed that he should know of their performance.

"Connie played Professor Khan and I the CD of your performance in theatre this morning, and extremely enlightening it was too."

"I don't know whether to laugh or to wring Connie's neck," George said with feeling, a slight blush rising to her cheeks.

"Oh, don't do either," Tom replied with a smile. "It made a very pleasant change from Mozart or Schubert. It's nice to know that your talents are many and varied."

"Well, talking of what I hope is one of my talents, I've come to give Connie the news that she now has a date for her trial. Do you know where she is?"

"She was in her office, tidying up when I last saw her." But as George made to pass him, a very much-unexpected aroma tickled her nostrils.

"Tom," She said conspiratorially, so that no one else could hear. "Connie's perfume really doesn't suit you." Flashing him a brilliantly evil smile, she walked smartly down the corridor, leaving him not knowing whether to curse or to blush.

"Come in," Connie called, as she began gathering up her possessions from the floor.

"Hurricane, or a fit of anger?" George asked as she entered, though she thought she just might know the real reason.

"Erm, neither," Connie admitted sheepishly, turning to face George, and shuffling a pile of papers back into order. Taking in Connie's slightly disheveled state, George laughed.

"Connie, you look like a naughty schoolgirl, who's been caught pleasuring the head boy between lessons."

"Well, I suppose you would know," Connie quipped back, a slight smile turning up the corners of her mouth.

"Having been sent to an all girls' boarding school, I can hardly agree with you," George replied. "Probably because my father saw that distinct possibility in me somewhere, though that didn't prevent me from getting to know far too many boys from the public school on the other side of the hill."

"Oh well," Connie said matter-of-factly. "At least I'm not the only one capable of behaving like a complete and utter tart, which appears to be what I'm doing at the moment. Still, you didn't come here to hear about my slightly scurrilous morning."

"Yes," George drawled with more than a little admonishment. "I hear you've been extolling my virtues in theatre in front of all and sundry."

"Your virtues are quite capable of extolling themselves," Connie said with a smirk. "Can I help it if I wanted to show you off just a little? So, why are you here anyway?"

"I've got some news for you, that I wanted to give you in person," George told her, the tone of her voice turning serious.

"Well then, let's go up on the roof and have a cigarette while you tell me," Connie said decisively. "so, if I feel like jumping, I'll be in the perfect place."

"That, isn't, funny," George said firmly, as Connie retrieved a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from her handbag.

"It's called black humour, George, it's how I survive."

They rode up in the lift to the eighth floor, and Connie led the way up the narrow stairs, and out onto the flat roof, where the icy December wind tugged at their clothes.

"I'll be lucky to keep my skirt on up here," George commented, as she and Connie huddled together, both trying to light cigarettes.

"It's the best hiding place there is round here," Connie told her, after finally persuading the flame to ignite. "I think Ric's the only other person who seeks refuge up here."

"Connie," George began slowly. "What brought on this, thing, with Tom?"

"Oh, that was your fault," Connie told her with a broad smile, ignoring for the moment just how George had known it was Tom.

"Darling, how can your urgent need for a quickie with your colleague, be my fault?" George asked with a laugh.

"Well, it was listening to 'The Creation' that did it, sort of had a rather extreme effect on both of us."

"Nice to know it was useful for something," George said dryly. "What I came to tell you," She said, getting them back to the subject in hand. "Was that we've been given a date for your trial, January the fifteenth."

"So, I could be back behind bars for Valentine's Day," Connie said bleakly, her previous good mood immediately evaporating.

"You don't know what's going to happen yet," George told her honestly. "Neither of us do. This time in three months, you might be free, and this mess might all be over."

"On the other hand," Connie said bitterly. "I might be back in prison, looking at a ten year stretch, for something I didn't do."

"Even if the worst does happen," George tried to reassure her. "I wouldn't just give up, you know."

"You can't perform miracles, George, not even with your connections."

"Perhaps not," George was forced to admit. "But I would try."

"I don't know what's wrong with me at the moment," Connie said after a moment's silence. "One minute I'm high on pure sexual indulgence, and the next, I'm as miserable as sin."

"I think it's what they call depression," George said quietly. "Combined with the fact that you are desperately trying to return to the person you were before the miscarriage, and before prison."

"That is frighteningly accurate," Connie said, refusing to look at George, fearful of the sympathy she might encounter in the other woman's eyes.

"I do understand why you feel the need to do it," George told her seriously. "Trying to regain the one thing I know best, is why I stop eating half the time, but having sex with every willing man who just happens to be up for it, can be just as destructive, to your self-esteem more than anything else."

"I know," Connie replied miserably. "Just, it feels right at the time, but then I feel pretty disgusted afterwards."

"Did you feel like that after sleeping with John?"

"You knew I would, didn't you," Connie said with a small smile. "Self-confessed man-eater, indeed. I didn't feel like that on Friday night, but I did after I got home on Saturday. I'm sorry, details of one of John's liaisons are hardly something you want to hear."

"I've sometimes heard far more than what time somebody left," George told her dryly.

"Why am I so dysfunctional," George?" Connie asked, though knowing that there wasn't really anything like a simple answer.

"We all are to some extent," George told her honestly, reaching forward to put her arms round her, now that they'd both cast their cigarette ends into the wind. "You're just going through a particularly difficult phase of it, that's all."

"Doing that with Tom this morning probably wasn't a very good idea," Connie said into George's hair. "But it has helped me make something of a decision."

"And is this the right time to be making decisions?" George asked, getting the feeling that this little quandary of Connie's was a serious one.

"Whether it is or it isn't, it's a decision I ought to have made long before now. I'm going to get myself sterilised."

"That is precisely the type of decision," George said, moving a little back from Connie. "That absolutely should not be made at a time like this."

"George, I wasn't ever cut out to be a mother, and believe me, I can do without the same thing that happened in prison happening again."

"Just be careful," George told her after a moment's silence. "If you do go through with it, just make absolutely sure it's what you really want, because even I know that it's pretty much irreversible."

"I have to do it, George, if only to get a little bit more control over my life."

A good while later when George had left, and Connie had done her ward rounds, she made her way down to Maternity, and knocked on the door to Owen's office.

"This is a nice surprise," Owen said when she appeared. "It's not often I see you down here."

"This is personal, though still professional," Connie told him a little sheepishly. "Can you give me a prescription for the morning after pill? You're the only one of my colleagues who isn't likely to ask awkward questions."

"Which tells me that I probably should," Owen replied, nevertheless pulling his prescription pad towards him, and scribbling a note for the pharmacy.

"There's something else I need to ask, partly as a result of this," Connie said carefully, waiting for Owen to put down his pen. "I would like to be sterilised, and I would like you to do it for me."

"You need to think very carefully about this," Owen told her almost sternly, steepling his fingers in front of him on the desk, and fixing her with his penetrating stare. "Is it the miscarriage that's brought this on?"

"Possibly," Connie admitted, getting up from her chair and beginning to pace round the room, finally ending up in front of the window, looking out onto the dreary facade of the car park. "I will never be a mother, and it's about time I faced that fact. My current, behaviour, is hardly reliable in that respect. I... I'm so depressed that it's almost an effort to get up in the morning, and I'm sleeping with everything that'll stand still long enough, well, except Mubbs, that is," She added with a slight laugh. "I need to do this, to put a bit of the control back into my life. Is that such a bad thing?"

"No, not at all," Owen told her quietly, still sitting at his desk, feeling that she would prefer not to have to look at him for this conversation. "Connie, it's been less than a month since you lost a baby, and whether you intended to keep it or not, is hardly the point. It was still an enormous shock, and you still need to grieve. You know, I did exactly the same as you're doing now, after Amanda died. I drank too much, worked too much, and slept with too many women, the most memorable consequence being the screaming match between Chrissie and Tricia."

"That was different," Connie said bitterly. "You wanted your child, whereas I don't know that I did."

"I didn't know that I wanted her, not while Chrissie was pregnant," Owen told her. "Because I didn't know that she was my child. Chrissie, being her usual, delightful self, didn't know whether Amanda was mine, or Edd Keating's. I threw her out, when she was six months pregnant, and only realised how much I didn't care who her real father was, when she was born, and we found out that she wasn't going to live. So, I do know how you feel. The thing is, making a decision like this one, when you're still grieving, and still all over the place, really isn't advisable. I fully understand your reasons for wanting to do it, and if you still decide that this is what you want, then I'll find you a slot on my private list, away from all the prying eyes of your colleagues. But I want you to give it a week. If, by next Monday, when you've seriously thought about it, you still want to go ahead with it, then come back and see me."

"Thank you," Connie said, finally turning to face him. "I know it's the right thing to do, but I will give it some more time."


	60. Chapter 60

**Part Sixty **

By contrast with the way that Connie was finding her feet back at St. Mary's, invisible strings were hard at work trying to pull her destiny in quite another direction altogether.

Brian Cantwell was still shaking his head with disbelief at the incredible foolishness of Jo Mills, as he picked up the phone to talk to one Michael Beauchamp. He had always known that she got worked up and emotional but he never expected this side of her personality to override all her normal instincts of elementary self-control as befitting a highly professional barrister. After all, what else is his profession about when in a courtroom when you have an 'off day' and your arguments are outflanked? Whatever the reason, she'd handed him such a prize morsel of information as George had surely indicated in her open expression of frustrated anger with him. Secretly, he'd felt jealous of John Deed in being passed over on the judge's course when he made the quite understandable comment that he 'didn't like blacks.' This is where the 'baker's boy' received his comeuppance, he thought as he sought coroberation of this story from the most reliable possible source.

"Michael Beauchamp here," the other man answered in his flat, businesslike tone of voice.

"I hope I haven't phoned you up at an awkward moment but there's a matter come up in a trial I'm involved with that you might be best placed to provide an answer to. I warn you, the contents is a little delicate and concerns Connie Beauchamp."

"Ask away," Michael Beauchamp offered, noting immediately that Brian Cantwell, not his solicitor, was doing the fact-finding. It must be important, he reasoned.

"In your time with Mrs Beauchamp, have you ever known her to have had an affair with Mr. Justice Deed or even spent the one night with him?"

"Hmm, let me think this one over, " he said leaning back in his chair as he searched his memory. Having had an 'open marriage' for years, the question posed wasn't as easy as it sounded. Finally, he recalled in his precise, cold-blooded fashion, the snatch of conversation that he'd only half noticed at the time with Connie. His mind started working overtime as Neil Haughton was an old friend of his who would dearly love to be privy to such a juicy morsel. He knew also that if he told his friend, he would be doing him a favour, which could easily be called back in return some time in the future.

"Yes, I do remember her saying specifically that she'd had sex with this John Deed and in his chambers as well. She was saying that to wind me up."

"Are you sure she wasn't making this all up for that very reason," Brian Cantwell pursued, wanting to be dead sure of this.

"I know Connie," Michael Beauchamp laughed cynically. "She might do that on any other topic under the sun you care to mention but not over sex. She never brags about that unless she's got reason to brag about it. If you don't mind me asking," he pursued in confidential tones, "how come you're questioning me about it?"

"Simply to double check what I've heard from another source," Brian Cantwell answered. "Someone who's very close to Mr. Justice Deed blurted it out to me in a discussion we had in chambers. You won't of course, let this information go any further. Walls have ears, you know."

"You can trust me to look after this very carefully Brian," Michael Beauchamp, responding to the insidious shading in the other man's words. Interestingly enough, he hadn't actually told the man an untruth as far as such concerns mattered.

It was extraordinary how quickly word got about and, in the blink of an eye, Neil Haughton called a meeting in one of the innermost rooms at the back of the Home Office where only a small square window opened out to the rear car park. The room was chosen almost as if, being conspiratorial to the depths of what passed for their souls, they had an acute paranoia of their plottings getting out to the fresh air of day. Michael Beauchamp and Alan Peasemarsh were sitting round the small desk on this important day of November 8th 2006 when, outside, storm clouds hung low over the capital city. Brian Cantwell trod the carpet assuring himself virtuously that loyalties amongst the brethren were entirely immaterial seeing that Deed had shown it precious little loyalty in return. The air had been humid with the prospect of sudden angry release through the impending storm. As Neil Haughton helped himself to a glass of temperate mineral water, a sudden lashing of rain beat across the window outside and rivulets of water trickling down the window was illuminated by a sudden flash of lightning that momentarily cast a pale shadow on the three men's faces followed by a crash of thunder. None of them were greatly bothered by these extremes of weather as all three relied on their drivers to be ready on time when they were needed and besides, the forces of nature wouldn't strike at them.

"So can we be absolutely sure of the facts," Sir Alan Peasemarsh pronounced, his legal and political mind placing him at the center of the business. "We have known Deed to have wriggled out of previous embarrassments before. You will recall the photographs taken of Jo Mills in Deed's chambers, sleeping in his very bed and even then, he brazened his way through a disciplinary hearing held against Mrs. Mills.

"This time, we have confirmation from not one but two directions," gloated Neil Haughton. He could hardly contain his glee at the prospect that, at last, his bitter enemy was facing ruination. The man was the personification of everything in the world that would not accept his natural.

"It seems to be an open and shut case," Michael Beauchamp joined in with his lazily assured tones. "I mean how much coroberation is needed in these cases? Does there have to be CCTV evidence of them 'at it.'"

"That's exactly the point," Neil Haughton broke in gleefully. "We've never had this kind of evidence before us."

"Speaking judicially, the strongest point is the admission by Mrs Mills before several witnesses concerning Deed himself, one of whom includes our present worthy barrister. We have another supporting line of evidence again, with direct evidence from one of us of what the other party to this squalid affair

"To take the position of devil's advocate," Brian Cantwell broke in to the accompaniment of slight frowns from the others who didn't like this sort of talk. "Isn't the case, Mr Beauchamp, that you have had an 'open marriage' and could be argued to not have been greatly concerned about the matter until it accidentally comes to light. Mightn't this weaken our position?"

"The name's Michael," Michael Beauchamp said in slightly patronizing tones. The man was getting a bit above himself but he couldn't show his feelings. "I can't see it as a great problem. After all, why should my experience in the medical administration field be relevant to what is perceived to be the idiosyncratic world of the judiciary? After all, it could be equally considered that the world of wigs, gowns and Latin tags is a rather obscure one to be confident of what is fitting and what isn't."

"I'm sure that Brian Cantwell has only our best interests at heart," Sir Alan Peasemarsh said in uncomfortable tones, running a comb backwards through his white hair as he always did at moments like these. He felt some residual loyalty to the man who, after all might become a rising star if deed could be kicked into the gutter.

"I'm sure you're only thinking of our mutual advantage," Neil Haughton intervened in easy oily tones designed to spread oil on troubled waters. He did everything except to pat the man on the head. "There's a danger that those who haven't got the expertise in matters like this might get carried away and go off at half cock. This time around, we mean to make this one stick, don't we?"

This was a critical point where if any of them had the faintest reservations, both moral and practical, they were cast aside. Neil Haughton knew this.

"All right, so we go for the jugular and go for impeachment in both houses. Make it as short and swift as these processes are and then Deed will be out on his ear and out of our hair also," Sir Alan Peasemarsh pronounced in firm tones.

"A drink is in order here," Neil Haughton said, reaching for the cabinet. He produced a bottle of port, something that he had been told was suitably aristocratic with glasses to match.

"A toast. To our enterprise," announced Neil Haughton with words that sounded positive and meritorious.

The four men sealed their enterprise with clinking glasses and blood-red liquid, which they imbibed. They licked their lips at the thought of a Deed free judiciary. Everything in their lives would be normalized and harmonized and everything could return to normal.

"What about the time sequence?" Michael Beauchamp asked anxiously. "Something like this sounds as if it will involve more than the normal amount of red tape. After all, sacking a judge can't be as simple as sacking a hospital porter. You're the expert, Sir Alan."

"It will take time I grant you but that need not be a problem. Deed will find out fairly shortly but does it matter if the machinery of government operates slowly but surely?" Sir Alan Peasemarsh replied in languid, self-assured tones. This pleased the others immensely as Sir Alan was thought most likely to bring up a whole raft of legal obstructions.

"I understand that in olden times, the rack also took its time but that just added to

exquisite torture," broke in Neil Haughton with an evil cackle in his voice. This moment was one of real pleasure, to imagine a helpless Deed and he was the one who would ratchet up the instrument at hand, notch by notch.

"Then we're agreed, we put the plan into effect immediately," Sir Alan pronounced.

Another flash of lightning flared to signify common assent, illuminating the grins on their faces while a long rolling clap of thunder reverberated round the room. At the same time, rain beat down on the ground, giving no mercy to anyone caught out in the storm.

They were so hyped up on their plan to nail John that they were sure they could not fail.


	61. Chapter 61

A/N: The recipe that John uses can be found on page 34 of Delia Smith's Complete Cookery Course.

Part sixty One

On the Friday evening when George came in from work, it was after six thirty and she was tired. She reflected that she seemed to have been tired for the past fortnight, though if she was honest with herself it was definitely for much longer than that. Walking into the kitchen to make herself a drink, she found a note from John on the kitchen table.

"George, when you get in, throw some things into a bag then come over here. I would like you to spend the weekend with me. I love you, John." Glancing around this old familiar room, George realised that something was missing, though she couldn't for the life of her work out what. Putting the note into that secret place in her handbag where she kept all of John's little notes, though she would never tell him this, George picked up the phone to call him.

"Are you coming over?" Jon asked her when he answered.

"I will, if you really want me to," George said a little hesitantly, "But I don't think I'm likely to be very good company this evening."

"Good company or not," John told her honestly. "I would still like to see you."

"Why the sudden need for my presence?" George asked with a slight smile.

"I'd like to spend this evening and the next couple of days lavishing you with affection." Feeling immensely touched at his bold statement, George said that she'd see him in a while, feeling a sudden rush of tears at the love he so clearly felt for her.

When George arrived at John's flat about half an hour later, she let herself in, put her bag down in the hall and walked into the lounge, Mimi bounding happily round her feet, making her smile.

"She looks pleased to see you," John said as he came out of the kitchen.

"Well the last time she saw me," George replied, fondly kissing him. "Jo and I were shouting at each other."

"I'm glad to see that the handprint has gone," John said, briefly touching her cheek.

"It didn't hang around for long," George reassured him. "And whatever feelings you might have about it, I probably did deserve it."

"I don't want to talk about Jo," He said, putting his arms around her. "This weekend is about you and me, not Jo."

"And does that also mean that you won't talk about Connie?" George asked, knowing that at some point this weekend they did need to discuss Connie.

"If you want to talk about Connie then I am perfectly happy to do so," He promised her, seeing that this was something she needed to do. "But what I mostly want you to do is relax. So, go and have a nice long soak in the bath, while I pour you a drink and cook you dinner."

"Its ages since you cooked me dinner," She said with a soft smile.

"I am capable of it occasionally," he said with a mock frown. "No matter how much you like to disbelieve that fact. I have been feeding myself and Charlie perfectly adequately for twenty years now."

"Yes, I know," She replied consolingly. "Though I'm still trying to work out precisely what you have borrowed from my kitchen."

"You'll have to wait and see," he told her, turning her about and pushing her gently towards the bedroom. "Do you want a glass of wine or a Martini?" Saying that a glass of wine would be lovely, George picked up her overnight bag and went to do John's bidding, eventually sinking into a hot fragrant bath that soothed her stressed body and to some extent her tired mind.

When John appeared holding a glass of wine for her, he put it down on the corner of the bath and then scrutinized her.

"I hope you see something you like," She said, breaking in on his contemplation of her.

"Very much so," He replied with a smirk. Then, turning serious again, he said, "Though I can't help but notice that food appears to have been somewhat disregarded as a necessity over the last week or so."

"Yes, well, I've had the lecture from both Karen and Ric believe it or not, so please, I can really do without it from you too."

"When did you see Karen and Ric?" He asked, wanting to get her away from any topic she deemed stressful.

"Last Friday, when Karen cooked dinner for us, and where I found it necessary to explain to Ric why it was probably better for him to simply accept that you were almost certainly sleeping with Connie, rather than being angry about it. Connie might wish that Ric didn't love her but he undoubtedly does, something that will cause him even more hurt when he finds out what I know about Connie, never mind the things I know I don't yet know about her."

"And am I to assume that this is something that might alter what I think of Connie, and which ought not to cross the boundaries of client confidentiality at any cost?"

"Probably," George replied with a shrug, taking a healthy swig from the glass of Chablis. "Though persuade me to drink enough of this fabulous wine, and I'd probably tell you anything you wanted to know, and to hell with client confidentiality."

"Then I shall make every effort to curb my curiosity." George laughed, a sound he hadn't heard in far too long.

"So, precisely what are you cooking me for dinner?"

"Ah, now that," he said, briefly leaning down to kiss her. "Is for me to know, and you to find out. All I will say, is that I had to borrow one of your cook books to make it."

"And do I even want to know what you will be attempting to do with my food processor?" George asked, suddenly realising what it was that had been missing from her kitchen.

"As I said, just lie back, drink your wine, and relax. Dinner will be ready when it's ready, so I'm sure you have plenty of time."

Going into the kitchen, John decided that as the Hollandaise sauce was the thing he hadn't made before, he'd better attempt to do that first. Standing by the table, reading the book he had pilfered from George, he read that if he was cooking for two people, he needed three ounces of butter melted in a saucepan. Well, that couldn't possibly be too difficult, he thought as he retrieved the butter from the fridge, and adding the required amount to the pan. Then, the recipe said that he needed another saucepan, to boil some white wine vinegar and lemon juice. Wondering just why this particular cookery writer appeared to need so many saucepans for such miniscule amounts as a couple of tablespoons worth of ingredients, he read the next paragraph in the book. He needed to separate two eggs and combine them with a pinch of salt in the food processor, whilst still keeping an eye on the two pans on the cooker. How did George manage this as often as she did, he wondered? How did she appear to have two sets of eyes and four sets of hands to accomplish far more complicated things than what he was trying to make.

George definitely felt herself begin to relax as she lay in the warm scented water, listening to John moving about in the kitchen. She was curious as to what had possessed him to try and cook something for her that he clearly hadn't ever cooked before, and it made her smile. That was one thing she could always say for John, she reflected to herself, he always, without fail, strove to make her feel loved and cared for. Then she wondered if he would want to make love to her tonight. In truth, she really didn't have either the energy or the inclination to do so, but if John really wanted her, then she would in all likelihood give him what he wanted. George wanted to make John happy, in any way she could, and if that meant making love to him, even though she wasn't especially in the mood for it, then she would. Mimi chose that moment to wander into the bathroom and sit looking up at George. Reaching out a hand, George scratched her behind the ears, always finding this little dog utterly adorable. But when Mimi suddenly fixed her wandering eyes on the pile of clothing George had left on the bathroom floor to sort out later, George immediately realised what Mimi was going to do. But before she could say anything to distract the little dog from her all too clear intentions, Mimi had snatched up a very brief pair of George's knickers and run away with them.

"No, Mimi," George shouted after her, though she was almost laughing. "Bring those back here!" Abandoning the food processor and the saucepans for a minute and coming out of the kitchen, John laughed when he saw what Mimi was carrying. Dropping the underwear on his feet, Mimi sat down and gazed up at him, clearly proud of her achievement.

"I might think you're clever, Mimi," John said as he bent down to pick up George's knickers. "But I don't think George will." Walking to stand in the bathroom doorway, he said, "Hey, can I keep these?"

"What, to go with all the other trophies I've no doubt you have?" She replied scornfully. "Be my guest."

"Actually, I don't keep trophies," he said, putting the underwear plus the other clothes George had been wearing in the laundry basket. "Well, except for the photographs I took of you when we were married."

"Do you really still have those?" She asked in utter astonishment, never having really thought he would have kept them for all this time.

"I used to look at them a lot after we got divorced," he told her honestly.

"And do you still?"

"Yes, sometimes, though I much prefer gazing at the real thing." He had the ability to make her feel so special, she thought with a smile, his love struck gaze getting lost in her beautiful eyes.

"Don't forget about dinner," She reminded him quietly. "I wouldn't want all your efforts to be spoiled."

As he returned to the kitchen, to gradually add the boiling wine vinegar and lemon juice to the whisked egg yolks, he thought of just how much he loved George. She would always be beautiful to him, no matter how thin she got or how much her increasing age might eventually alter her. He would always sincerely worry about her, desperately wanting to take away her pain, and soften the hurt that she seemed to feel so easily, most of it generated by the guilt she still held over Charlie. When she was in the mood for it, lovemaking really was one of the things she did best, and when they were working at that in perfect harmony, the passion that existed between them could scorch anyone in their immediate vicinity. John knew without a single doubt that he would always love her, no matter what she might do to him. This didn't mean that he wasn't capable of being hurt by her, but what he did know was that he would always strive to move passed it, to always try and regain the love he knew was there. As he then added the melted butter in a thin steady stream, before transferring the sauce to a small bowl over a pan of simmering water, he reflected that at least for this weekend, George would eat the food he made for her, to please him if nothing else.

When George eventually appeared in the kitchen, wearing a thin cotton nighty and a thick blue dressing-gown, she glanced with slight amusement at the book that was still open on the table.

"Hollandaise sauce," She read, before sitting down at the table. "I'm impressed."

"See how it tastes before passing judgement," He replied with a smile, removing the book and replacing it with a plate of food. There was an oven-baked salmon fillet, that John had wrapped in foil with a bay leaf and some fresh parsley. This was placed on a bed of steamed fragrant rice, and surrounded by asparagus tips glazed with the afore mentioned Hollandaise sauce.

"For precisely what, do I deserve such effort and attention to detail?" George asked as John put his own plate down on the table and filled both their glasses with the chilled Chablis.

"This time last week," He said as he sat down. "I was eating dinner with Connie. It just struck me that I ought to in some way redress the balance."

"Well, it is very much appreciated," She told him quietly, briefly touching his hand before picking up her knife and fork. As she ate a mouthful of asparagus, which was definitely one of her favourite foods, the tangy richness of the Hollandaise sauce made her eyes widen in astonishment.

"You look as though that tastes as it should do," John said with a slight smirk.

"Definitely," George groaned in theatrical enjoyment, "It's wonderful." As they companionably ate, John reflected that if there was one thing that he truly enjoyed watching George do, it was eating. Yes, he definitely enjoyed seeing her argue her point in court, and it was without a doubt that he loved watching her make love to Jo, but to watch her eat, held such a simple pleasure for him that he couldn't help but smile. She was here, eating a meal that he had made for her, gaining much needed nourishment from something he had cooked for her, and she was clearly enjoying what he had given her.

When they'd finished eating, John said that he would do the washing up later, and taking her by the hand he led her into the lounge and pulled her down to sit in his lap in the big armchair that was at right angles to the sofa.

"There's something I need to say," He told her, holding her secure in his arms. "And I would like to say it without interruption." George gave him a soft encouraging smile, simply waiting for him to continue. "Prior to your recent argument with Jo, I think I hoped that there might be a possibility of you and Jo regaining the relationship you had, before she began her affair with Tom. However, since that argument, the likes of which I haven't known for some years now, I know that to be a pretty fruitless wish. As to precisely whose fault that disagreement was, well, that's something I neither need nor want to know. You and Jo will have to talk to each other at some point, because I refuse to lose either of you when that really isn't necessary. I think that Jo initially enjoyed what she had with you because it was new, different, something she had a curiosity in exploring, but I no longer think that it's something she really wants. Where Connie is concerned, no, I shouldn't have slept with her last week, I know that. It might not hold much sway with you at the moment, but I don't honestly think it will happen again. I certainly have no plans for it to happen again, and as far as I'm aware, neither does Connie. She told me what happened a couple of weeks ago, and why you didn't sleep with her. If I'm honest, I think that you need to explore a sexual relationship with Connie, if for no other reason than to regain that self-confidence that you clearly still lack. From the little she did say, it is perfectly obvious that Connie feels a great deal for you, something that I think could only do you good. So, if being with Connie in whatever fashion would make you happy, I think you should do it." George stared at him, all the tumultuous feelings that she'd been trying to suppress for the last few weeks rising up in her, threatening to drown her in their intensity.

"I love you," She said, the tears now running freely down her cheeks.

"Good," He said with a soft smile, gently kissing her.

"Connie isn't the only person I've thought about sleeping with in the last week," She told him, suddenly wanting to be entirely honest with him.

"Really?" He said, his curiosity and amusement taking away her slight nervousness in telling him.

"Karen," She said, thinking of what Karen had said to her last Friday. "When I left her and Ric together last Friday, she said that if she didn't think it would confuse me even more, she would have asked me to stay."

"And what was your reply?" He asked, not having expected this particular added nuance to the situation.

"I told her that I didn't know whether I wanted to be here, with you and Connie, or there with her and Ric, so I decided to go home instead, because I knew I wouldn't be any use to any of you." He held her if possible even closer to him when she'd said this, wanting her to never have cause to feel like that again, wanting above all for her to be happy, however that might eventually take place.


	62. Chapter 62

Part Sixty-TwoThe night that John had cooked for George was a bright spot in his life, as rich in intimacy as the flavours of the meal but John knew very well that life was closing in on him very dangerously. As he sat thinking on his own, his favourite Western playing unheard to him, he was very quietly thinking about the threatened impeachment. The worst of it was that he knew he had behaved stupidly in sleeping with Connie. What he wasn't prepared to think of were his feelings towards Jo for blurting out the truth in front of Brian Cantwell of all people. Instantly, John reined himself in and stoically decided that all that mattered was that he had a threatened impeachment on his hands and he had better come up with a strategy to fight this one. As the screen flickered before his eyes, he took in the scene of the lone gunman wearing the proverbial white hat preparing himself to deal with the black-hatted gang. Outnumbered though he was, the man had no hesitation in relying on his wits and fast thinking in making his stand and fighting back. John's blue eyes were wide open as his mind followed the film, which he'd seen many times before. If only life were as simple as that, he reflected ruefully and not for the first time in his life. It was only when the final credits were rolling that John grasped the very simple alternative, either sit and stew in which case he would be surely impeached or take the fight to the enemy. What was being threatened was surely a transparent pretext to drive him from his position and, if successful, would be followed by the brethren being cowed into surrender with the establishment cracking the whip as surely as did the black-hatted villain in chief did, a third way through the film. In a blinding flash of thought, the obvious solution was to go for broke and organize a judge's strike against the government's attempt to victimize him. The next obvious move came immediately to mind."I suppose you know why I'm here, Joe," John said in meek and mild tones. Joseph Channing immediately detected what was on John's mind. His brows furrowed over as he shook his head in disapproval at what John had done, not for the first time in his life.

"I've heard the rumours that are flooding round the brethren. You really have been a silly ass and that is the view of the brethren," Joseph said in explosive tones.

"I know, Joe," John said meekly. This response took the other man aback but he couldn't stop the diatribe coming out of his mouth as the paralyzing shock of this bad news demanded an outlet.

"What I can't get over is the reckless way you risk ruining yourself and everything you've striven for. You never think of the consequences of your actions, on your family, those who hold you in high esteem. It's not just your own lookout you know. What you've done is unbelievably stupid. What I can't understand is how an intelligent man can be so unbelievably obtuse."

"I agree with everything you've said. I have been very thoughtless. I'm sorry," John replied in a low tone of voice.

Joe's open mouth stayed that way for a minute or so. Somehow, he'd expected John to be much more combative about the matter. He was paralyzed to the spot. It was John that broke the ice.

"Perhaps you need a drink Joe," John said in a soft concerned tone of voice. He wasn't deceived by the older man's surface anger. The older man instinctively followed the suggestion and without thinking about it, poured a second measure for John and placed it in his hand. It was early in the day but John's own concealed tensions prompted him to swallow down a fair mouthful of this stinging liquid. These were exceptional times, surely.

"I have a solution to this problem- in fact the only solution that I can come up with but first, this impeachment must be seen in the wider context of preventing the apparatchiks removing someone who has been a thorn in their side for a long time. If that succeeds, they'll try to impose juryless trials, mandatory sentencing and so on, so that we will be reduced to mere ciphers of the Home Office."

"That goes without saying John," came the brusque reply. "I too have done my homework and so have the brethren. This is why your latest indiscretion couldn't have come about at a worse time than now."

"So that's why we take the fight to the enemy. I think we should do what we've once threatened and organize a one day strike of all judges and bring the system of justice to a grinding halt unless the impeachment is withdrawn. After all, an injury to one is an injury to all."

"What?" Joseph Channing exclaimed, his eyebrows threatening to rise up to his hairline and, most unforgivably, spilling his drink. The thought was appalling. What would his father think of him, he heard himself thinking?

"Look here Joe. The issue's very simple. If we fight on their terms, I'm sunk and so will the rest of you be if I'm out of the way. No disrespect to the brethren but if I am out of the picture, as the most public opponent of Haughton and his ways, formally dismissed and publicly pilloried by the press, it will knock a lot of the fighting spirit out of the brethren. If we fight back together, we have a chance."

"Hmm," Joseph thought, rubbing his chin. The issue was very fluently expressed, but he wanted to get his head round this one. John saw his opportunity and grabbed at the chance with both hands. He knew how much the traditionalist strand of the brethren looked up to Joe.

"By the code of conduct, I have transgressed and I deserve a severe slap on the wrist, perhaps more. Perhaps I've secretly believed in the words of a wise man, I don't know who said that 'rules are made for the guidance of wise men and the obedience of fools' and I've recently broken that rule. Going on strike upholds it to the letter."

"Hmmph, that's been your trouble all through your professional life," Joe said caustically but with a lurking sense of attraction. He felt his own restiveness at needless constraints secretly agreeing with John.

"Let's reduce things to simple basics, the way the public sees things. If I'd slept with Connie Beauchamp as a quid pro quo for getting her off the charge, I'd be hung out to dry in public and rightly so but I didn't. I slept with Connie Beauchamp with no thought to my material gain nor hers and in fact, have distanced myself after discussion to be a winger. Jo Mills is the judge, not me. If push comes to shove, I am not corrupt, not guilty in moral terms."

"Very ingenious, John but where does this take us?'

"It means that we go public and we take strike action. You know that if we put it to the brethren in the right way, they'll consider that I've been very foolish in being sexually promiscuous but no more. They'll see that the much larger threat is that the apparatchiks are simply using this for their own purposes. This is the golden opportunity to create such a public stink that they won't go ahead with impeaching me. Let's face it, Joe, it's the only weapon we've got."

"I need time to decide on the matter," Joseph said abruptly." I would sooner talk about more pleasant matters while you're here."

The appealing look on Joe's face nearly deflected John from his second errand, which now rose from his unconscious. It was only now that his first life's errand had been partly achieved that he realized what he had to grab the opportunity to intercede on George's behalf.

"As it happens, I was going to talk about something different. I've heard that you've had a bit of an argument lately with George."

The look of joy that had briefly dawned in Joe's face quickly died out. He reached for what seemed like his only friend at this minute and drank deeply. His watchful eyes waited for John to speak while he wondered how John of all people could step forward where others feared to tread. It was all the same picture, he thought to himself.

"I suppose you'll have heard all about my daughter's perverse personal choices. I doubt if even you are going to be a modern minded liberal even on matters so close to home," Joe said in snappish tones that betrayed nothing to John's alerted senses so much as the other man's extreme discomfort with the very idea.

"I know that George finds other women attractive and she has no problem in acting on her feelings. I have come to feel that George will do herself more harm in bottling these feelings up in this area as well as in others. The only way I can explain this that I don't feel threatened by her, as I know the reality of her love for me. The one really constant factor that has always stuck out a mile about George is how solid and uncomplicated her feelings are for you and vice versa. Only because I don't want to see that threatened am I asking exactly what is the problem you therefore find with George's particular tastes?"

Joe had been flinching as he made ready to hear John speak and was faintly pleasantly surprised at the delicate way John expressed this damnably tricky matter before the sting came in the nicely phrased tail. He was not to know that John felt equally constrained in his thinking. He'd deliberately avoided mentioning Connie's name in this part of the discussion, because in part his agreement with Joe about George's professional misconduct would drag them away from the central point and then again, he could hardly talk about professional misconduct.

"You've put me on the spot, haven't you as I suppose you have every right to. It's not something she was brought up to be, nor in generations gone past. Above all else, it's so damnably un-English and foolish to risk jeopardizing her career. Not everyone is as eccentrically liberal minded as you are."

John knew beyond doubt that there was barely lurking affection and possibly approval in Joe's choice of adjective.

"You should know that there are lots happening these days that our forefathers haven't had to deal with which me must. We have to be bold enough to invent new ways. In any case, if it comes to a choice of sides between George and some ignorant lout who would seek to traduce George's name in general, which side are you on?"

"Well, my daughter's of course." Joe's instant and unreserved choice prompted John to utter the next words as softly and clearly as he could convey, almost unnaturally so in view of what had gone before. In retrospect, he later wondered how he'd managed to control his voice so well.

"In that case, you need to do the uncomfortable thing and seek George out to at least try to understand her even if you can't agree with her. You may have to apologize for the way you expressed your opinions if you think that in the cold light of reason you need to do so. These are only my thoughts of course. If you agree with me, then my advice is not to delay talking to George. We'll all need all the strength we've got."

Joe sat there looking thoughtfully at John. There was something in what he said. It crossed his mind that, at worst, he only had a problem with a part of George's life. He would have to bite the bullet.

"All right John, you've convinced me. I'm not saying I feel relaxed about the matter because quite frankly, I'm not. It's only that I want to stand by my daughter rather than cast her out as my ancestors may, quite wrongly have done so. About the other matter, let me think this on my own with the assistance of this bottle of malt whisky and I will let you know of my decision very soon."

"Thank you Joe for listening to me," John said in respectful tones as he made his way out the door.


	63. Chapter 63

Part Sixty-ThreeAfter Jo's highly unpleasant row with George, she spent the next couple of weeks in burying herself in her work, the more complicated the case the better as it gave her mind something taxing to get a grip on. She didn't mind in the least in working into the small hours, glued to the computer screen and wracking her brains on abstruse points of law. She was only half conscious of the fact that all this activity enabled herself to feel good about herself in fighting for the interests of justice in the case she took on, just as she always had done. By some chance, her case took her before Monty Everard where she crossed swords with the none too capable Neumann Mason-Alan and he was periodically reprimanded for asking leading questions as usual. The satisfactory outcome of the trial reminded her just why she should have the perfect right to a good measure of high self-esteem. It also set her up quite nicely for preparing herself for when she would assume the judge's throne for the Connie Beauchamp case. Throughout the progress of the trial, she found herself not only reacting to Monty's 'no frills' style of running the trial but in studying his particular techniques in this trial. She found that a part of her mind could do this surprisingly easily without any emotional considerations intruding when they weren't wanted.Nevertheless, even her concentrated efforts to bury herself in her work couldn't block her ears to rumours running round the circuit of her acquaintances that John Deed was facing the threat of impeachment. While her face remained poker faced as the two barristers chewed over the latest gossip, she backed away from the situation, dreading that she'd be accosted with the deadly challenge to state her position with the words,' I thought you're close to Deed.' Whatever could she say to such a question? She was in the worst of all possible worlds of being distanced from both John and George on the one hand and hostile barristers having long condemned her for 'guilt by association' with Deed. Passing Brian Cantwell in the corridor and avoiding the smirk on his face was the final straw. It spurred her on to her sudden resolution to somehow make good. In that frame of mind, she eagerly accepted the invitation from Tom to go out for dinner. She very much fancied the place that Tom suggested as it was well off the beaten track, quiet and discreet and, besides, the standard of food was good or so she'd been led to believe. Sure enough, they found themselves outside the front door of the restaurant. Tom found himself choosing his greeting by softly kissing her on her cheek. Tom Campbell-Gore had come off a hard shift, which took all his energies and determination to follow a straight line through the conflicting demands on him, and he found the prospect very beguiling of Jo Mills' gentle nature and penetrating blue eyes in the irresistible half-light of an intimate restaurant. It was the ideal place to get away from all the talk about operations, patients and hospital politics, especially Will Curtis' abrasive supercilious manner. He wanted to get away from it but with the knowledge painfully acquired over the years that being transported to another, better place didn't have to involve pouring potent spirits out of the neck of a bottle.

They drifted in and the waiter took one look at the pair of them and ushered them to their table set in an alcove to give them privacy. As he discreetly passed them the menu, he knew from experience that not only young lovers frequented his restaurant and it was right that it was so. He raised his eyebrows a fraction when they politely waved away the wine list and asked for a jug of water but supposed that it wasn't his business.

"We're both starving and we're more than ready to sample what you've got on your menu. We've not been here before but we came on good recommendation," Tom tactfully observed at which point the waiter smiled pleasantly.

Under the dim slightly rosy tinted overhead lights, the mild curry that was served was pleasantly spicy. Everything looked promising for the evening.

"To the future," Tom proposed with his raised glass of water, feeling comfortable in his seat. Jo echoed his words, inwardly wondering about what they were jointly proposing.

They exchanged small talk over the meal, which they ate in a desultory fashion and the longer they chatted, the more Tom felt that they were both being unreal with each other. He might have let the performance continue but he realized that he wasn't in the position of standing up and heckling some bad performance of a play as the only sensitivities he need consider was his own and Jo's.

"Jo, I know that there's something that's troubling you deeply from the very minute we met tonight, if not before. We have to talk- properly this time."

Jo immediately turned a pretty shade of pink but didn't meet his penetrating brown eyes shadowed by his inquisitive eyebrows. She studied the pattern of rice on her plate very intently. She reached out for her glass and swallowed down a large gulp as if it were neat spirits.

"I thought we were, Tom. Don't spoil this lovely evening," she said softly, reaching across the table and touching his sleeve.

"In all the time I've known you, we've built up a strong friendship which is part of a strong relationship. It means that friends can talk, no matter how delicate the matter might be and, let's face it, this restaurant is pretty intimate."

Ever since Jo had entered the restaurant, the vision of those big blue silently reproachful eyes had haunted her and Tom's persistent questioning the dam finally burst open. She was unpleasantly faced with the blunt truth, however nicely expressed.

"All right, Tom. I'll tell you what's been going on but you might not like what you hear," Jo said, a tremor in her voice as she clutched her handbag feverishly.

"Then try me. I think I'm strong enough after finally learning to cope with life's trials. I think you have that strength also. Anything is possible," came the easy soothing tone of voice smoother than Tom had thought possible of himself.

Finally, Jo started to speak in an uncertain stream of words, which gathered momentum and became an unstoppable flow of words.

"The worst thing is that in one moment of blind stupidity and jealousy, I have handed John's enemies a prize weapon which his enemies can use against him," Jo said at last.

"Wait a moment, Jo. How do you know that this will get back to John's enemies?" Tom cut in, trying to get his head around the flow of words.

"Because I said it in front of Brian Cantwell, the prosecuting barrister when we were in chambers when George put her proposition to me as judge, John as winger. All parties needed to agree to this. Hadn't I made this clear?" Jo said, slightly sharply. She was painfully aware that her rambling story contrasted with her lucidity when she was arguing some abstruse point of law in court. "Brian Cantwell made it quite clear that he would spill the beans, make no mistake on it."

Something told Tom that Jo's last words were a typical John turn of phrase but he didn't press the point. He was certainly being inquisitive enough as matters stood, especially as he hadn't done yet. He had the curious sensation of peeling a layer from an onion to find another layer beneath it with a growing suspicion that he wasn't ever going to reach the core.

"So how did George take to the situation?" Tom asked in easy tones. Tom immediately noticed how Jo looked away again and the tremor to the corner of her lips. While she remained silent, so did he.

"Well, George took the moral high ground on this occasion, well you know George," Jo said with a shaky attempt to laugh off the matter. "She has always had a passionate nature and I got the full force of it once she had packed John out of the way. Female to female rows aren't something that a man should witness, far less participate in. I think she had John's best interests at heart."

The peculiar intonations behind Jo's words were one of the most perplexing experiences Tom had ever gone through. Something was happening here and he didn't know what it was but there was one thing for sure. Jo was most certainly enmeshed in her relationship with John and George in a very messy way and it was obvious that he was a relative onlooker. This didn't bode well for what he had assumed was his own relationship with Jo. It made him very much question his own situation.

"I get the feeling that I've been presented with a jigsaw puzzle and not all the pieces are there.

"Tom, I have never told an untruth in my life." Jo exclaimed with a sharp intake of breath. "It's against my personal principles, not to say the reasons I came into the legal profession. It's about getting to the truth, at seeking justice. John was my pupil master, if you must know and I absorbed much of my ideals from him. For that matter, I got pretty close to George though God knows where I am with her right now."

There it was out in the open, Tom thought to himself with a curious sensation of detached objectivity, seeing all the players in this story, himself included.

"If you must know, I have a piece or two of this puzzle in my hand. I had a very revealing discussion with George about you."

"And just what did you say to each other?" Jo said with a great affectation of indifference that fooled nobody.

"She was so obviously hurt by my relationship with you, most of all that she didn't get as much from you that she gave to you. She really felt as if you were playing with her and all you wanted was a straight relationship. Just how you and George relate to each other from now on from what you've said, God only knows."

"But Tom," protested Jo. This hadn't been what she had wanted from this evening. This was so unexpected.

"We have to be truthful with each other, Jo. It's pretty obvious that I'll never be more than a sideline in your life. The one thing we've got in common is that we're recovering alcoholics and this is something we know that the others don't know. Nevertheless, it's not enough- not for either of us………."

The way Jo slowly nodded her head showed that he'd finally convinced her of what she knew deep down. The process was mysterious most of all to himself but the words that finally came out of his mouth were as inevitable as if they had already been said.

"I'm certain of one thing and that is that you need to talk to both John and to George. I'm also convinced that there's no future for the two of us in a sexual relationship and I can't foresee us having one again. What you must believe is that I will always be there for you as a friend. We have that much in common."

Jo's face was white at the revelations that had crowded in on her mind but she knew that Tom had meant this very kindly and honestly and perhaps she might get that sense of balance she wanted. With the trial in the offing, she certainly needed it.

As Tom walked his solitary way back down the dark empty streets, a track off a Rolling Stones CD came back to his mind. The lyrics and the plaintive slide guitar might have set out to haunt him but it didn't. He contemplated this and what had happened with a curious sense of detachment.

"I followed her to the station with a suitcase in my hand  
And I followed her to the station with a suitcase in my hand  
Well it's hard to tell it's hard to tell, when all your love's in vain  
All my love's in vain."

He smiled at the thought as he realized that the reason he didn't want to listen to the blues was because he didn't want to get the blues. Real life was quite enough for him to deal with.


	64. Chapter 64

A/N: Credits to Respect Party Homepage for the quotes on 'Crime and Punishment'

Part Sixty-Four

The four of them sat in the splendour of Joe Channing's mansion as a council of war. Their initial feelings of powerful outrage had settled down a little but only as far as to propel them to plan the unthinkable.

"So we come to the moment of decision. Just how many of the brethren will actually go on strike." Joe concluded. That word had a strange taste in his mouth, of some illicit pleasure."We have all made our individual approaches and we need to know what we can actually deliver. From my soundings, the signs are promising. How have you fared, Monty?"

"Those whom I spoke to were most vociferous in their support. It's not just about the attempt to impeach John. For years they've felt pushed around by this government. They are fed up being given restrictive guideline and generally told what to do. They don't like the feeling of perpetually looking over their shoulder before they pass judgment. Most of all, they loathe and detest Houghton as a squalid little jumped up know nothing advertising tycoon. They have absolutely no respect for him, as he is a mediocrity. This has been a long time coming. All they've needed is someone or something to spark them into action. They'll be with us, even the usual fence sitters."

John and Morag chorused their agreement. This was a revelation. They all smiled freely at the news, which was better than they had dared hope. It only took one shove at the delicately poised boulder and it would roll its course. It gave them a strange feeling of power, tempered with responsibility. In what direction would it roll? This was uncharted territory to them all, or nearly all of them and made them nervous.

"So how do we organize this strike?" Morag enquired." We don't just stay at home and watch it on TV surely? There must be more to it than that. Unfortunately, your lectures at Warwick to me and the others didn't include this on the syllabus."

John grinned at Morag's droll remark. He had thought at the time that he had been quite subversive enough, but this deficiency now became obvious. He could sense the direction the conversation was turning and felt relaxed about it.

"John, you're the expert. I remember how you used to hold forth about your sit ins and protests at university."

"I remember the way you said that it made your blood boil and that it was damned un English of me," smirked John playfully at Joe.

"That was then but this is now. I'm quite entitled to change my mind. This is England's heritage that we are talking about, after all. Remember Oliver Cromwell. He gave that Charles the First fellow short shrift when he got too big for his boots. Soon cut him down to size. We need your experience."

John laughed heartily at Joe's gleeful enthusiasm in his unintentional pun and he ransacked his distant memories. He could remember that extraordinary event as a vivid patch of interconnected pleasurable sensations. He recalled equally vividly the crowd of marching charging people down to the city centre , as equally sleeping with that gorgeous woman with the long blond hair in the large communal sleeping area . He remembered standing next to the leader of the sit in, when the university files were broken open in order to check just how much surveillance there was on the more notorious trouble makers. He shook his head, as his memories eluded his search for specific answers to the here and now. Historians always had both the time and opportunity to interview a whole variety of sources to investigate the motivations and backgrounds of the key players, to piece together the sequence of events that led up to the main riots and revolutions. If you were in the middle of events, which burst in on you, it was not so easy. After the sit in, John had relied on the sheer brilliance of his mind and on not being definitely caught out in the aftermath to go on to his illustrious career. The specific memories were consigned to his adolescent phase, even while he boasted of the allure of such adolescent delinquencies. Now he was being called upon to lead such disreputable behaviour. He smiled to himself at life's little ironies. In the absence of specific experience to draw upon, he would have to fall back on his inventive mind.

"We have to decide upon our targets. There's the Old Bailey and Court of Appeal and they are very handy and well known for the press. They won't need a route map to find us."

His experience was either of being door stepped by pushy reporters from the Daily Mail to dish the dirt on him, or alternatively of briefing the more intellectual parts of the media on the government attack on freedoms. Building on this experience started to boost his confidence. His boldness and instinct told him that where there was a will, there was a way and that the brethren would back them.

"What about the Home Office?" Joe suggested." We might as well take the war to the enemy?"

"Are there enough of us to stake out all three places, much though I like the idea?" questioned Monty.

"Are there enough of us who are bold spirited enough to look after the courts while we concentrate on bearding Houghton in his den?"

All three of them nodded their heads. The die was cast. Joe poured them all a generous measure of whisky in celebration.

"Not too much, Joe." John said softly.

"And why?"

"Because we're going to be busy organising the strike. If all goes well, we'll have a victory celebration and then we can all get thoroughly plastered."

"Good man, John. I'll drink to that. For England and St George and damnation to the establishment," enthused Monty, drinking a generous measure from his glass.

"This will make an excellent 'team building' initiative, all of us combining our forces and talents together to make that man grovel. It will be both a sacred duty and pleasure."

All of them burst into hearty laughter at the delicious irony of Joe's witticism. The day's activities would certainly unite the brethren, but against the government.

"I don't need to say that barristers and solicitors cannot be seen to take part in strike actions. While there is nothing the LCD can do to touch us, they are quite capable and willing to take the wheels off the road of any barrister. We cannot let them take that step."

"So, do we spread the word to them to just stay at home or travel to work, and be ready to be turned aside and go home?"

"Well," Joe reflected long and hard. "If they have business to do at home, let them do so. If there are those disposed to even try to come to work, there'll be nothing for them to do, if we're united and resolute. Besides, they'll have us to reckon with, on the day and afterwards."

"The weather forecast is good for the time of the year. It predicts cold but bright weather," remarked Morag in the thoughtful silence." There's no wind either."

"Oughtn't we be provided with hip flasks to keep out the cold?"

"Oh, good," Beamed Joe Channing at Monty. The day promised dedicated firmness of purpose and the prospect of pleasurable enjoyment was an added bonus. "I shall donate my finest malt and enough hip flasks for us all."

"And we must wear our robes of office if we want to steal the headlines," Morag grinned.

"That reminds me," concluded John. "We have to go out and get maximum publicity. It won't necessarily come to us. It strikes me that the media need to be forewarned. I suggest the BBC, ITV, the Guardian and the Independent for a start, unless there are too many of Houghton's cronies who would sit on the story."

"I think we can discount any attempt by the gutter press to create a diversion in terms of John's affair with Connie Beauchamp if you don't mind me putting it this way, John." Monty added in the friendliest of tones.

A moment of doubt caused the mood to darken. They suspected very strongly that the greater danger was that the story could well be simply spiked.

"Aren't there any socialist rags or subversive organizations that would be happy to cheer us on, John?" Joe Channing said hesitantly, screwing up his face at John. "They may once have seen us as their natural enemies at one time and vice versa, but these are strange times indeed. We must be prepared to be bold and innovative."

"I'll do the necessary research, Joe. Just don't ask me too many questions."

A strange smile played on John's lips. His large memory conjured up possibilities as to where to start looking.

"The Respect Party seems suitable," Muttered John as his search of the internet brought up a promising source of help. "Somewhat Bolshevik but I can't say that I disagree with some of their ideas. He glanced at an article on Crime and Punishment and he couldn't help approving of the notion of 're-establishing park wardens, bus conductors and platform attendants who provide some community control, and giving people a degree of hope and a sense of community.' He scanned the article further and one sentence made him nod his head in particular approval. 'Think of the large number of people killed in Britain over the last 20 years because privatised industries and companies ignored safety regulations—train disasters, the drownings on the Herald of Free Enterprise, the Piper Alpha oilrig explosion. Yet not a single person was charged with murder, nor a single company with corporate manslaughter.' Well, he had done his best to redress the balance, he grinned to himself. He jotted down the contact number and picked up the phone.

The tousle haired man dressed in jeans and T-shirt was no stranger to phone calls from rank and file comrades , oppressed by the capitalist system and on the point of leading the workers out on strike. He knew very well that far too often, the trade union bureaucrats were remote from the struggles on the shop floor. He was no stranger to the feelings of anger of working class heroes who were caught between the pent up outrages of years of being trodden underfoot by the bosses. Yet at the same time, he was sensitive to that element of fear in the voice on the other end of the phone, as the prospect loomed ahead of the high risks in going over the top. He was well placed to contact the informal network of dedicated revolutionaries, who were out there and to feed the story out to their press, the stories that the bourgeois press were too politically compromised to run. It had got worse since the government had ousted the head of the BBC, Greg Dyke, no revolutionary, and the Government had seized the chance to tighten the screws on the media in general. He was used to the variety of regional accents and speaking manner but he was definitely unprepared for the rolling self-assured Etonian accent that made its leisurely way down the phone.

"John Deed here. I looked on the Internet and found your organization to be one which could give advice on taking strike action."

"I'm glad to help you, comrade. Are you the branch secretary of your union?" he asked cautiously. The tone of voice aroused his suspicions, as a part of his political education was a healthy paranoia about MI5 agents trying to infiltrate the organization or alternatively, act as agent provocateurs.

"Aaah, I'm not an official leader but all the others follow me."

"Oh, so you are a rank and file leader?" the man asked approvingly. On the face of it, this sounded promising. There was a certain diffidence of tone, which suggested that he was a newcomer to rank and file trade union activism.

"As rank and file as a high court judge ever is. We do include the odd appeal court judge or two."

At that point, the man's hearing tried to make contact with his brain and failed utterly. This lay totally outside his political experience and didn't fit in with the familiar associated alphabet soup of organizations, political or trade union . No MI5 spy would have the bizarre imagination to masquerade as such pillars of the establishment. They would be more likely to represent themselves as leaders of some suitably grimy handed proletarian organizations as railway or engineering workers.

"A high court judge? So you and your fellow workers are all judges?"

"That's correct." Came the courteous reply.

"You don't mind me asking, why are you going on strike?"

"Is it safe to talk openly on the phone in case the line is tapped?" came John's cautious reply.

"It's all right, er, comrade John, there is an up to date scrambler fitted to the phone."

"Briefly, I have been a thorn in the side of the establishment for years. Specifically we are up against the Home Office and their craven lackeys in the Lord Chancellor's Department. They see the relationship between the executive and judiciary as a master servant one and that we should manipulate the progress of politically sensitive trials to suit their squalid purposes. For instance, I once levied exemplary penalties against One Way Phone company for damages to a single parent whose mobile phone was known to be life threatening. She died slowly and painfully of a brain tumour leaving a little boy who was orphaned. I did what I could to ensure compensation for the family as far as a bereavement can ever be compensated for. I have never been forgiven for that. I have been particularly hated for dragging into the open their guilty knowledge of the health hazards which they suppressed. "

"Jesus, so you were that judge." Gasped the man in mingled astonishment and admiration to John's pleasure. "That case was the talk of our organization."

"I am also particularly guilty of persuading my fellow judges who had previously thought me an outspoken maverick to share my point of view. In particular, I have crossed swords with Neil Houghton, the present Home Secretary, and unprincipled, money grubbing petty dictator, who has also tried to pass laws bringing in juryless trials and mandatory sentencing."

"That bastard," exclaimed the other man. Of all New Labour ministers, he was more hated than any of them.

"I cannot cast aspersions on his parentage, only on his character." John's droll tones responded. The man on the other end of the phone had to grin and warm to the comrade. He had a uniquely stylish wit and clarity of thought about him. Instinct told him that this story was becoming more and more promising.

"The only good that he has ever done has been that his dictatorial manner has taught the brethren that I have been right all along so that I ceased to be the disreputable outsider that I was once considered. They have come to follow my lead and set us on collision course with him."

"Brethren?" queried the man.

"It is an expression, referring to the entirety of the judges."

John's explanation made sense. It sounded a bit like an exotic public school version of comrade.

"What has brought matters to a head is that I have been threatened with impeachment."

"Tell me about it."

"You'll understand that, in the eyes of the establishment, I am a marked man. They think that recent events have delivered me into their hands. I am due to sit as what is called a 'winger' in a forthcoming trial, acting in an advisory capacity to assist the trial judge, perfectly legitimate in itself. The defendant is a consultant surgeon, now held on remand at Larkhall Prison, having been accused of murdering one of her own patients. This surgeon and her husband had previously had what you might call an open relationship. She had appeared as a prosecution witness in a previous trial, where the defendant had again been held in Larkhall. During the course of the trial,I had slept with her. I now understand her husband came to hear of this and has recently dumped his wife to save his own political skin. In order to curry favour with my political enemies he told them of thispast relationship_. _What brought matters to the boil was that I had ordered her release from prison on bail and they put two and two together and made five, making the wrong assumption that I was the father. In reality, I did it because she was viciously assaulted in prison and miscarried. I did it in the name of pure humanity because I was asked to do it, and not by her.

The Lord Chancellor's Department are now raking through a series of trials that I have overseen which involved inmates from this one particular prison and have sought to establish a pattern of personal bias in these cases when in reality, there is none. I have been specifically accused of exercising undue influence in treating the defendants leniently. My real crime, if crime it is, has been resisting being leaned on in each particular case that I can recall so that both verdicts and sentence were radically different to what the establishment wanted.

They plan to use all this to get rid of me. In actual fact, I have acted in such a way that I stand to gain nothing out of the cases- not from the defendants in the past nor from the past relationship with the defendant in this current murder trial but of course they can't see this."

The other man sieved his way through the dense cluster of events, of cause and effect, of moral judgment and political perspective. The whole story was so off the wall that it had to be true. The judge's sincerity was patent but the other man had some questions to put to him.

"They could have told you to back off this case, comrade and given you a slap on the wrist for sleeping with this woman."

"Precisely."

"Can you be absolutely sure that you can give her a fair trial?"

"I'm positive that I can. They are falsely accusing me of the very sort of cronyism that they are guilty of, time after time without them even thinking about it."

"Is there absolutely nothing else that you need to let me know?"

John had to admire the way that his sharp eared listener had cut quickly to the core of the business. Underneath the man's radical trappings, was a lawyer in hiding.

"Nothing whatsoever. My conscience is clean. I give you my word that while my sexual morals are somewhat wayward, my ethical morals are impeccable."

"Do your comrades know about you sleeping with this woman and what do they think of it ?"

"They were somewhat critical of my choice of sleeping partner but yes, they know and, for all that, they are prepared to stand up and be counted. I would never have let things go this far without being totally transparent with them."

"In other words, you are being victimized, comrade and if they manage to stitch you up, they will come after the rest of you and the rest of the comrades know this," the man concluded in more definite tones, reverting to his normal manner of speaking. He had to hand it to the man in being so forthcoming. He had made up his mind firmly on the matter and found himself on more familiar ground in describing his feelings on the matter. Wheels started to turn round in his mind at an express pace.

"That sounds about right." John answered in studied tones while respecting the other man's succinct summary. It struck him as rather droll to be addressed as 'comrade' in contrast to opposed to 'my lord.' It recalled dim memories of egalitarian philosophies of his student days. The language of the voice on the phone sounded strange to begin with, but he found himself more and more comfortable as he continued. He sounded perfectly genuine, and was definitely on a higher moral plane than the false politeness of the apparatchiks.

"Look here, John," he exclaimed excitedly," I am sure our organization will back you but what's your plan?"

"The strike's on for Friday November 17th 2006. We're picketing the Old Bailey and the Court of Appeals and also the Home Office where we hope to remonstrate with Haughton in full view of the press to make an ideal photo opportunity. We'll be in full regalia of course. It will be cold and the robes will keep us warm. Three high court judges and a very angry court of appeal judge will give him plenty to think about."

There was a perfect silence at the other end of the phone until the man picked up a stray thought which made him urge caution.

"It sounds great but had you thought about the Tory anti-trade union employment laws? You have to give so many days notice or they'll hang that one on you, declare the strike illegal and seek damages against you."

"Against the National Union of Judges? No such organisation officially exists. Besides, exactly which judge will do their dirty work for them? We are united in struggle and none of us are disposed to do the government's bidding."

The beautiful simplicity of John's formulation hit the other man like a bombshell and left him giddy with the rush of possibilities that opened up before him. For many decades, these laws had been a fact of life that had held back their movement. Moreover, John's quiet determined tones impressed him with his force of purpose and the sheer outrageous theatrics. He desperately wanted to help out and play a part in this event. More than anything else, he knew what side he was on and that was the most important thing.

"What practical form of support do you want, John?" he asked in hushed respectful tones.

"We'd like to get full coverage in the mainstream papers. We're going for the least corrupt of the established press, the BBC and ITV but the established media may well be gagged. For this reason, we'd be grateful if any newspapers that you are connected with could cover the event. We realize that, while firm in purpose, we are relatively few in numbers and if any of your friends care to turn up on the picket lines, they would be extremely welcome. One thing I must impress upon you. The demonstration must be peaceful, as otherwise our stance as upholders of justice would be publicly compromised."

"We'll keep any head cases well away from your protest. There are some around, unfortunately. Have you had any experience of this sort of thing before?"

"Only in my student days in the sixties when I was involved in protest and sit ins."

This judge was pegged as a strange distant relation of Tariq Ali and Paul Foot as warm-hearted sentiment washed through him. He was too young to be there but collective party folk memory passed down this history to him as well as sitting at the knee of such still active political veterans. It is strange what seeds of rebellion were sown that lay dormant for years, which have now reached fruition.

"I don't want to tell you the obvious but you'll need picket signs, leaflets to hand out to passers by and mobile phones to keep contact with each other for a start. If you can get hold of a megaphone, it'll help you to get your point of view to the public in general."

"I'm used to holding forth in an extremely large court building." John's slightly severe voice retorted in actorish tones.

"I'm sure you can but think of the London traffic first thing in the morning and the wide open space. The acoustics are totally different from what you're used to. Why take any chances?"

"Perhaps you're right. I'd better look one out," John conceded.

"Look here, I'll have to talk to the rest of the committee but from what you've said, we'll back you one hundred per cent. Can you give me your phone number and I'll phone you back as soon as I can get an answer."

"That's extremely decent of you……"John said with a hint of emotion in his tones. On the other end of the phone, the word 'decent' had a quaintly old world air about it. It was something that the judge obviously believed with every fibre of his being. He had as much determination about him as any working class hero that he'd known or read about.

"By the way, is there anything else that we need?" he asked.

"You need good luck, good weather and solidarity, comrade." He closed the conversation softly.

"Charlie, can you help me out with making up some picket signs? Oh yes, and I could do with a fully functioning megaphone."

"Why on earth do you want to make picket signs at your age, dad." laughed Charlie.

"For the brethren to go out on strike with. What else?"

A few hours later, John and Charlie were hard at work, carefully painting some very decorative picket signs. Just as Charlie was enthusiastically putting the finishing touches, Mimi strolled past, wagging her tail and streaked the paintwork. She pirouetted in full view, traces of red paint staining the end of her tail.

"Oh Mimi," exclaimed an exasperated Charlie at her. "You just have to stick your nose in everywhere. It's only because you want to be the center of attention."

"Dogs do, Charlie. They're worse than children," muttered a weary John as he straightened his back.

By unspoken agreement, John became responsible for the final preparations in the last couple of days. He would coordinate the strike action via his mobile. What gladdened his heart was that the most cynical, jaded amenable of the brethren volunteered to man the picket lines on the Old Bailey and the Court of Appeal. It freed up the four of them to concentrate on the Home Office and John lay down to the peaceful sleep of the just especially as the Respect party had phoned him back and promised their support. He had an early night and slept soundly.


	65. Chapter 65

Part Sixty Five

Late on the Wednesday afternoon, when Joe Channing had finished for the day in the appeal court, he thought that it was long passed time he went to see George, to at least clear the air with her if nothing else. He had taken to heart the things John had said to him on Saturday, and whilst he might not admit it openly to anyone but himself, he did realise that John was right. George's attraction to women obviously wasn't a passing phase, something she could try and then discard, just like a dress that went immediately out of fashion. It was clearly something that was part of her, part of her make up, part of her genetic structure that her parents had given her. Whilst he certainly couldn't now and never would entirely accept this part of his daughter, it didn't mean that he had the right to blame George and judge her badly for fulfilling this need in her. John hadn't out rightly said this in so many words, but Joe was well aware that this was what John had meant. But what Joe definitely would stand firm on was that in no respect should George become more than professionally involved with her client. Connie Beauchamp had been charged with murdering one of her patients. Joe had read enough papers in the last couple of months to be well aware of this above all other salient facts. No matter what George said she believed with regards to Connie Beauchamp's guilt or innocence, it hadn't yet been proved one way or the other in a court of law. George was dead set on defending this woman, and to all intents and purposes forming some sort of a relationship with her as well. Would George really be so stupid as to become involved with someone who may be a killer? Joe didn't think so, but he supposed there was always a first time for everything.

It was after four thirty when he entered the building in Knightsbridge that contained George's office, and Joe fervently hoped that she hadn't yet left for home. It was very rare that he came here, but he thought that on this occasion it might be more preferable to her than him turning up at her house. When she called to him to come in, he smiled. Her light, infectious drawl would always make him smile.

"Daddy," She said when he walked into her office, "this is a nice surprise."

"Is it?" Joe asked a little gruffly as she got up from her desk and moved towards him.

"Of course it is," She said, "you might have put me in my place the last time I saw you, but that doesn't mean I don't want to see you."

"That's why I thought I'd better come here, rather than come to see you at home." It deeply moved George to see just how nervous he was at the thought of confronting the argument they'd had a few Sundays ago.

"Daddy," She said, looking earnestly back at him. "You could tell me that you didn't want anything more to do with me, and you'd probably still be welcome in my house, because you're my father and because I love you. I just don't like it," She said a little more hesitantly. "When I'm so obviously disappointing you in some way."

"Do you have anything resembling Scotch in this office?" Joe asked, wanting something to steady his nerves before they embarked on this conversation.

"No, I don't, but I suspect that one of my colleagues does," George replied, gesturing him to a chair, "I'll be back in a minute."

As she walked thoughtfully down the corridor towards the office of one of the more friendly partners, George knew that she wanted to try and settle things with her father, if that was at all possible. In coming here voluntarily to see her, he really was trying to make amends, George knew that, and she was prepared to forgive him almost anything. But neither could she deny the side of her personality that did find women attractive, that part of her that without a single doubt found Connie attractive. Yes, she was a woman, but George knew that woman or not, she found other women sexually compelling, and she was no longer prepared to ignore that part of her, never mind how much her father disapproved of it. Where Connie in particular was concerned, she knew that he did have a point. George absolutely should not be getting emotionally or sexually involved with her client, no matter how much she believed Connie to be innocent. George shuddered at the thought of the jury finding Connie guilty, because she honestly didn't know what she would do if that happened. She would fight for Connie's appeal obviously, but as to how she would actually feel, that was another question altogether.

After cajoling a glass of scotch out of a barrister who had declared that her father deserved it after having overturned his client's conviction the day before, George returned to her office.

"George," Joe began tentatively, after taking a hefty swig of the whisky. "Apart from the time that you spent living with that odious cretin Haughton, you have never in your life disappointed me. You only disappointed me on that occasion because I knew you were only really doing it to make Deed jealous, and that is not a reason for living with any man, especially one who can't even cobble together a decent argument. Not even over this possible involvement you may be about to embark on with your client are you in any danger of disappointing me. Worrying me, yes, making me fear for both your professional and personal reputation, definitely yes, but not disappointing. I need you to understand that."

"I'm sorry," George said into the resulting silence. "And you have no idea just how much I wish that Connie wasn't my client. Yet at the same time, I don't know if I'd trust even you or John to defend her. Connie has so much about her past, about the way she deals with people, both things that I do know, and things that I know I don't yet know, if that makes any sense. If the worst of what I do know about her is to come out in court, and which knowing Cantwell as I do it will, it will very possibly destroy any personal reputation Connie has left. Back in March, when I was in hospital having my breast removed, Connie forcefully dragged me out of the depths of despair, and made me start facing up to the fact that I had to deal with the cancer, or give up then and there. I was terrified of John seeing what I looked like, because I knew just how much female beauty has always meant to him. Don't forget, not long before this I had also caught him with Connie in chambers, which I can assure you is an experience I don't ever want to repeat. But if Connie hadn't gone far and above the call of duty, in forcing me to release some of the anger and bitterness I had inside me after my surgery, I can safely say I wouldn't still be here now. At the time, I really didn't know how to begin dealing with everything I was feeling, and Connie managed to put me back on the right road to start doing that. So please, try to accept that I have to help her through this, in whatever way I can, as a lawyer, and as a friend."

"And if you were to form a sexual relationship with her," Joe asked gravely, "Would you then also take on the title of lover?"

"Yes, I would," George told him without any hesitation. "I can't begin to explain to you what I feel for Connie, because I'm still not sure of it myself. But what I do know is that Connie and I have a connection that is far deeper than mere sexual attraction. All I can really say is that I've only ever felt such a depth of feeling for one person before this, and that was for John."

"Well," Joe said, draining the scotch and getting to his feet. "If you win in due course, perhaps you can introduce her to me one day. I got on with Karen didn't I, so I'm sure that Mrs. Beauchamp can't be any more challenging to my usual philosophy."

When her father had gone and George had finally driven home at about half past six, she couldn't stop wondering just where she should take things now. Yes, she wanted to get to know Connie better, and she knew without a doubt that Connie felt the same about her. But how to move further than they already had done? With a broad grin on her face, she picked up the phone.

"John," She said when he answered. "Can I come over later this evening and pick your brains?"

"Sure," He said without thinking. "What about?"

"I think I need some advice on how to seduce a woman." John roared with laughter, then slightly sobered.

"Come over about nine," he told her with a smile in his voice. "I'll see what I can come up with."


	66. Chapter 66

Part Sixty-Six

At a ridiculously early hour, John's mind switched on and he sprang out of the spare bed at Joe's mansion. Because of his methodical preparation, picket signs, leaflets and loudhailer were stashed in George's convertible. The only problem he foresaw was in putting on his flowing red robes in the outside winter air rather than in the cloistered environment of his chambers.

"If I get arrested by the police because of being caught up in your infantile games," hissed George from behind the wheel,"I will be absolutely furious. I will never forgive you if I get caught out. I will want compensating of course."

"You don't change, George. You were just the same when you were a little girl," chuckled Joe to George's embarrassment and John's knowing smile.

As they approached their final destination, everything felt unreal. For a start, they were heading away from his beaten track and for another, they were up and about a lot earlier than normal. George parked her car discreetly round the corner from the Home Office, her eyes flitting in every direction to spot anyone she might know. Fortune had blessed them with a rising sun on the horizon just starting to illuminate what set out to be a fine blue sky and not a breath of wind. The conditions were perfect. George hurriedly got out the robes of office, and pointedly ignored the instruments of public protest.

"If you must take part in this ridiculous masquerade, then I insist that you must be smartly dressed. I don't want the pair of you to disgrace yourselves on the front page of 'Cosmopolitan'."

"You mean if we are arrested," John said impishly.

"I mean, John, I will not have either of you looking as if you have stepped out from an Oxfam sale," George retorted acidly, refusing to rise to the bait. "Now I'm going home and I'm going to have a quiet day at home and, no, I won't be watching the news. I dread to think of what I might see."

As George stalked off haughtily, she threw the parting remark from over her shoulder.

"Phone me on your mobile and I'll pick you up."

"If I know George, she'll video the news. She's really proud of us, only she can't say it." Joe's very carrying 'stage whisper' was answered by John's grin as he watched two hackney taxis converge on them and Morag and Monty arrive. The arrangements were starting to fall into place.

"All right, John, where's the action?" Morag called out casually, her robes neatly in place.

John shot a quick look down the street. Already, lines of yellow-jacketed policemen were assembled outside the front entrance. He propped his picket sign over his shoulder and held the loudhailer by the handle, using it to gesture to the others.

"Over there unless they're double crossing us, Morag. I think that we should not disappoint the public guardians of the peace. Come on."

"I don't know about you but its biting cold outside and a shot of whisky would warm us up," Urged Monty.

"Great idea," Pronounced Morag. The ardent spirits soon coursed through their veins and warmed their spirits without taking the edge off their thinking. They could hardly be arrested for being drunk and disorderly on a picket line. After all, they were judges, were they not?

They filed over to the front doors of the Home Office and curiously enough, the policemen gave them space. Ancient instinct prevented the Metropolitan police from barring the way to four distinguished judges, customarily the upholder of order.

There was a polite stand off as there was a pause in the proceedings. There was a curious uncomfortable edge as if the police were uncomfortable in not confronting their traditional enemies. On the other hand, the four wise judges were starting to feel as if they were actors in a performance of Waiting for Godot. John looked at his watch. It struck him that for the first time in his life, he was forced to work to Houghton's daily routine. He glanced at the entrance to the underground car park and judged that this was the entrance to block. Long dormant instincts enabled him to size up the geography of the situation and locate themselves in it, three dimensionally. John understood immediately what the political activist had said about the traffic noise. Fleeting steel shapes whizzed past them and their constant irregular droning sound intruded on everything, including private thought. He had not noticed it before, having been one of the drivers.

Suddenly, a crowd of casually dressed demonstrators rounded the corner, and filed in their direction. They were well muffled up against the elements. Instantly, the police reverted to their normal boot faced impassive demeanour. They recognized their natural enemy and felt almost relieved about being able to revert to type. They closed ranks so as to bar their way.

"Hands off our judges." A single shout rang out from the crowd. It seemed to confuse them.

"Are these others with you" one policeman curtly enquired of John.

"Looks like it," Came John's response. "Any free spirited English people are welcome to celebrate with us the traditional freedoms, which are under threat from the government. I'll be answerable for their good behaviour so can you let them pass."

John's forceful tones had the desired effect and the line of policemen parted so as to let the crowd through. Their leader extended his hand to John whom he recognized as being in charge. John noted approvingly that his grip was as firm as the man's politics.

"You must be John Deed. I'm pleased to meet you."

"I'm glad you could make it. We're pleased that so many of your friends could spare the time to come along."

"I said that a lot of us would come along and support you."

"I confess that I'm not used to being up at this early hour. At least the weather is fine."

Incongruously, the unwritten but powerful mores of conventional English polite society prevailed on the city streets, occupied by four supposed members of the British ruling class and their one-time class enemies.

"How's your strike going?"

"We're certain that the Old Bailey and the Court of Appeal will be closed for the day. Not one single judge will turn up for work. There will be very few barristers who will even try and turn up for work and they won't dare cross the picket lines. I'm going to phone up in a bit and check."

Images came into the other man's mind of folk images of furious confrontations in the 1984 miner's strike. He could not help but be impressed that this strike was so solid and well organised.

"The press are arriving, comrade."

John glanced round and, to his surprise, a group of photographers were coming in his direction, complete with cameras and hand held film gear. Even he was becoming slightly overawed by the scale of the event unfolding. Was it only days ago that this was all talk as they had conceived the idea and made their plans?

"This way, gentlemen," John's carrying voice called out in their direction, still holding the megaphone in his clasp. It was just while they were crossing the road, Morag called out to him in an urgent tone of voice.

"Look out, everyone. Haughton's coming."

The pressmen froze for a second, before the more quick-witted hastily grabbed their cameras, video and sound gear just before events unfolded very rapidly. They had to take the chances as they came.

Sure enough a sleek grey limousine flashed into view, and the tableau froze for a second. Instinctively, John stepped out to block the approach of the car.

"The reckless fool," Monty muttered, as he hesitated where he stood.

Fortunately, the driver braked instinctively as a judge in full regalia was blocking his path. Slightly ashamed of his vacillation, Monty's feet unfroze themselves, followed by Morag and finally Joe puffed his way to the scene. A lividly angry Haughton wound down his window, as the flashbulbs started popping and the cameras started to run.

'I'll have all of you arrested for obstruction if you block my way."

"And who's going to try us? None of the brethren would touch this with a bargepole."

"I'll find someone. Sir Ian might."

"You can't really mean that the fool has the slightest ability to run a court of law. To say that he was always mediocre in both his knowledge and application of the law would be to grossly exaggerate his talents. That was why he became an administrator." Laughed John in his face.

The soundman noted with satisfaction that the judge's voice was nicely balanced for volume and well modulated for live transmission even if Houghton was less distinct. The smart suited politician went red in the face in anger and humiliation and raised his voice in an effort to sound masterful and dominant. After all, he was the Home Secretary, Mr. Law and Order, wasn't he? He did not realize that he only came over as petulant as nobody had ever dare tell him that.

"You will not get in the way of the elected representatives of the people. I shall crack down hard on the lot of you."

"You fool, Haughton. You'll have us out for longer than a day if you carry on like this.

You come and face us, man to man, and tell the nation on prime time television that you'll impeach me if you dare," roared John at the insignificant man who shrank back in his seat. None of his minders were there to help or advise him.

Suddenly, there came the powerful if not very tuneless singing through another megaphone to the tune of 'London Bridge is falling down." An unamplified chorus backed the singer.

"Neil Houghton is a right.

Is a right, is a right

Neil Houghton is a right."

For a few moments, John, Monty, Joe and Morag were puzzled at the way the song built itself up in such an obscure way until suddenly the payoff line explained all…

"Tory hangman."

John roared with laughter at this neat linguistic trick of this bit of street theatre protest. As the chorus leader swung into a repeat chant, John lustily joined in, followed more discreetly by the others, not without misgivings at the way that the creep was bracketed to their conservative upbringing. Joe Channing's long experience of life hailed back to his own legal mentor Lord Denning, or Bob Denning as he knew him as, the legal stalwart of the McMillan government. No true die-hard conservative would ever deign to breathe the same air let alone soil his hands by shaking hands with such a jumped up spiv. Everyone had standards in his younger days. Nevertheless, he did smile faintly at the spectacle and mumble along despite his reservations.

"Move it, driver. This is an order." Haughton snapped, unable to stomach the public humiliation any more. Unfortunately, the judges had crowded in on Haughton, the more effectively to harangue him and the way was clear. With a screech of tyres, the sleek black Mercedes was off and away, down the steep concrete ramp, round the corner and was gone.

Momentarily, John's wits were in a state of disarray. The object of their collective loathing had removed himself from the scene.

"Is that man so scared of us?" John asked abstractly of the world.

"It's more what you represent, John." Put in Monty.

"Do you want to talk to the press, John? They are waiting for us."

John pulled himself together in response to Morag's quiet suggestion. It was taken for granted that John was the most capable in this particular area. After all, had he not gone public in his crusade against the creeping power of the executive on a number of occasions? However much they may have criticized him at the time, both his past experience and his boldness made him the obvious public spokesman.

He eyed the pressmen warily, having crossed swords with a number of them who violated court procedures in their coverage of a 'reality TV' trial. One of them had sneaked a photograph of a witness on a mobile, put it up on the Internet where it was downloaded onto the front page of the tabloids. He had had the lot of them held in custody, day after day, until the culprit cracked. The difference was then that he was on John's territory , whereas he was now right out in the open on their territory, with no defence except his sharp wits. He saw that very same reporter was joining the queue to launch the attack.

"Isn't your strike an attack on law and order?"

"I disagree. Any authority can and should govern with public endorsement of its morality rather than mere passive acceptance. It is the Home Secretary who is bringing the law into disrepute. He is obsessed with shredding and binning what rights are still left to us leaving no opportunities for dissent. A famous man said that if you do not give the people reform, they will only give you revolution in return."

"Won't the public suffer?

"Name me a strike that hasn't had some effect upon the public. The argument is not of our making but the Home Secretary."

"Don't you feel that you're being used?"

"By whom? We have minds of our own. If you refer to the supporters of the strike, I can only express my gratitude in their public spirited attitude in passing up a morning's lie in."

"Won't the viewers feel uncomfortable in left wing activist extremists latching onto an otherwise worthy cause, and hijack it to their own ends?"

"The strike has a clear objective, that the threat of impeachment against me be rescinded and no other judge is ever threatened in this way. There is a general principle at stake that the executive should back off from its attempt to seize total control over all aspects of society. I think our worthy companions and fellow protesters agree with this last principle , whatever banners they may carry."

"What sort of example are you setting the criminals out there?"

"The laws of this country do not permit unpunished what is clearly a crime so long as the due process of law is complied with. The right to peaceful legitimate protest is a time honoured one. History will tell anyone that rights were hard fought for yet so easily taken away unless we all stand together."

"Do you anticipate any more strike action?"

"That is in the hands of the government. They don't have to misapply the overused Churchill metaphor of refusing to budge for no clear reason. If they have minds, then they can be open to reason and they should be large minded enough to admit their mistakes. The ball is in their court."

"Can you therefore definitely rule out any further strike action?"

"We shall continue with whatever it takes to achieve our goals. Naturally, a peaceful solution is to be preferred."

"What sort of support have you had in your strike action?"

"I quite forgot. I meant to check with my colleagues. If you bear with me for a minute."

John said courteously as he fished out his mobile through his red robes.

"John here," He asked coolly and calmly. "For the benefit of the press and TV who are right next to me, how's the strike going on at your end………oh, one hundred per cent support…. a mere handful of barristers came to work and turned round the moment you politely asked them to…and the turnout at the Court of Appeal was exactly the same …….that's excellent…….well, I hope that you are all in good spirits….."

"I am proud to say that all the judges have risen to the occasion and that both courts are closed for business." John proclaimed with a slight tremor in his voice. It dawned on him how much he had asked of the brethren. Thoughts had fluttered at the back of his mind, that he might be demanding more of the more cautious brethren than they could deliver. After all, they had not had his hardening experience of a long career path of brinkmanship with the forces of reaction?

"So your senseless disruption has been complete?" urged the cheeky Scottish whippersnapper of a press hack whom he had punished for taking the photo in court. God, he must be getting old, he thought, to think in terms like this.

"Better to go on strike and make a clean sweep of it rather than launch a series of half successful strikes, don't you think?"

"Do you see the successful outcome of the strike benefiting not just judges and if so, who, how and why?" came the solitary voice of the friendly young man whose chance phone call to him had steered in John's direction.

"We have struck a notable blow for liberty. As far as I see it, freedom is indivisible. I was brought up to believe in the separation of the powers in the executive, the judiciary and the legislature. We of the judiciary are rooted in the sense of England's traditional freedoms. So far from being a revolutionary demand, it is a traditional statement of the pluralist society. On the one hand, a victory for us would make the power obsessed and control freaks think twice about encroaching on our traditional rights and freedoms. On the other hand, if the over mighty executive has failed signally in their attempts to attack me, then it will encourage one and all to claim their just rights. I trust that this day's action and others who respond to it will help rebuild the necessary checks and balances and keep at bay those who wish to rob our freedoms in the name of democracy."

As the reverberation from his proudly and loudly uttered words died away, John suddenly noticed how dry his voice was. While the mainstream press had fallen silent, his radical friend nodded approvingly, and was scribbling it down in rapid shorthand. It would make peculiar reading, side by side with Trotskyite politics but it all made sense to him. It was couched in a different vocabulary than he was used to, that's all.

The four of them looked on as John held the megaphone in his hand. It dawned on them that the main purpose of the strike had been achieved. The film clip would be duly taken away and suitably edited and the press would file their stories. Suddenly, a massive feeling of peace and silence descended upon the actors in this street theatre. So focused had they been on in preparing for this event, that it was very hard to work out exactly what to do next. Hazily, John realized that while they stayed there, so would the police.

It felt as if they were all at an all night party, with that same feeling of being tired, yet unable to leave. They had certainly been up since very early and on their feet for hours. A lot had happened in a short space of time.

"The comrades and I have to make a move. We've got to get to work and I've got an article to write up. I expect we'll meet again sometime."

"So long as you're not in the wrong end of my court." Joked John. Instantly, he regretted his remark. He shook hands with the man, followed by Monty, Joe and Morag. While they had held back in their dealings with the others, it was only out of a peculiar sense of shyness, not having John's adaptability in mixing with all kinds of people and finding something in common with them. Their friend led the crowd away from the scene of their triumph and all that was left were the four of them, the policemen and the sound of transient traffic passing. Presently, the police shuffled their way down the street as they were needed elsewhere.

"What do we do now?"

"I'm all for another shot of whisky," Came Morag's prompt response. They were feeling chilled to the bone and that was an excellent idea.

"Where do we go now?"

"Back to the digs," Exclaimed Joe promptly. "You did say we could celebrate, John. I for one am not doing any of my normal work. That would be indecent and it can surely wait."

"Do we phone for a taxi?" Monty asked in vague tones. They were at that level of tiredness, when even banal matters take time in thinking through.

"I've a better idea. George will pick us up. She did promise us."

Fifteen minutes later, John spotted George's car in the line of traffic. Fortunately for her state of mind, there wasn't a policeman in sight.

"Do you seriously think that my car will be able to take all of you? I'm not driving a cattle truck." George exploded when John imperiously demanded that George took them all to the digs.

"I don't know. Perhaps Joe ought to be in the front. The rest of us will squeeze in the back, somehow."

"It's the somehow that worries me." George said grudgingly, eyeing the space in the rear seats dubiously. She capitulated , as poor daddy was looking especially tired out. She permitted herself a secret smile as it struck her just how thin skinned and neurotic Neil was and that their protest might just work. She could not afford to be squeamish in letting the most disreputable means achieve her goal. She never had in the past so why stop now?

"Well, just for Daddy's sake, I agree but only on conditions."

"I might have known you'd drive a deal."

"For a start, I will not put up with any backseat drivers. If you don't like my driving, you can jolly well walk. For another, I do not want to see a single mark on my car."

George could feel the extra weight, as soon as she moved away and she drove with the utmost delicacy. It was uncomfortably sluggish when she braked, or when she accelerated. Only for that reason, were the passengers spared the aggressive style of George's driving in slicing in front of dithering weekend drivers.

"Is there a spare television that we can set up in the bar?" John enquired of the barman when they had piled into the digs.

."Why on earth do you have this unaccountable desire to watch daytime television? My time off sick certainly made it good aversion therapy," George drawled with a knowing look in her eye, while the others looked as pleased as punch at the idea.

"Oh, only to watch the news. Nothing else."

"So you can see if the camera has caught your best profile, darling, and minister to your vanity."

"Look who's talking. In any case, I know you really don't mean it, George."

"Just watch my lips."

"Never mind this infernal argument," Monty cut in, weary of this pointless bickering. "I'm dying for a drink."

"Do you want to join us, George?" came John's slightly loaded enquiry.

"Yes, why not, though I'll be drinking Martini, not scotch."

"I certainly didn't bring up my daughter to drink scotch," Joe Channing put in.

"Which is why I won't be drinking it," George reassured him. Feeling the vibration from the mobile in her pocket, George moved to a slightly quieter corner of the bar to answer it.

"Did they behave themselves?" Karen asked with a smile in her voice.

"Just about," George told her with a laugh. "And now they're encouraging me to get drunk with them. Hey, do you want to come and join us, we're at the judge's digs?"

"Sounds fun," Karen replied. "I'll be there just as soon as I've finished here."

"Yes John, I'm being perfectly contrary in joining in your victory celebrations," George said as she came off the phone. You know very well what I really feel about how splendidly you've behaved. Now do you have a problem with that?"

"I wouldn't dream of arguing."

"Let's have a bottle of your finest malt," boomed Joe, the light of incipient pleasure in his eye. "None of your tiny thimble sized measures. Five glasses and the bottle, and leave the rest to us. We want to celebrate."

I've asked Karen to come and join us," George told him. "So she can have my whisky glass. I might just have to put a bet on her drinking all you men under the table."

"When's she coming?" John asked, gesturing to the barman to hand him the bottle of Martini and a glass for George.

"As soon as she can leave Larkhall behind for the day. She saw you on the news and thought you all looked fabulous."

"I'll see to the chairs. You take the weight off your feet, John. You look about done in." offered Monty in a concerned tone of voice.

"Nonsense, he's got more stamina than that," Smirked George. "I should know."

John smiled weakly at the others. In their different ways, they were being kind hearted to him. He dropped down in his chair, more worn out than a particularly grueling fencing duel. In the meantime, Joe's slightly shaking hand poured out recklessly large measures of neat spirit.

"Whew," Morag exclaimed. "The fumes alone are enough to knock you out."

"I've had whisky that is strong enough to fuel a rocket to Mars and got us back to the pub for closing time." Declared Joe roundly with firm conviction.

"My Lord," the barman called. "We've found a portable television for you."

"That's excellent." John exclaimed, coming back to life." Can you set it up, so that we can all watch it?"

"And I'll pour another round." Added Monty. There was a big smile on his lips. He was happy being sat in a comfortable bar chair, with good company and no Vera to put a damper on everything.

"This has all the signs of a drunken debauch," came George's non-committal observation.

"Are you complaining?"

"Only if you don't get me some ice. This Martini is like milk that's been left out in the sun too long," came the cryptic reply as she sipped the smallest amount possible from her glass.

"We forgot to get it videoed, dammit." Suddenly exclaimed Monty in a woebegone tone of voice.

"It's just as well that there is someone around with brains and organization," George retorted, an insufferably smug expression on her face. "I taped it, while I was at home….well, I knew that none of you 'heroes of the revolution' would ever think of it."

John commandeered the remote control and flicked through the channels and, sure enough, the opening shot of the familiar sight of the Home Office headquarters came into view, only that the perspective was curiously detached. It did not feel that the viewer looked at the scene through their eyes.

"And now, news has just come in of extraordinary scenes outside the Home Office. Four judges, in full regalia, demonstrated outside the building, calling on the minister to withdraw a threatened impeachment of John Deed, a high court judge. There were minor scuffles, as they attempted to waylay Neil Haughton the Home Office minister. When interviewed about any future strike action, the leader, John Deed remarked that "If they have minds, then they can be open to reason and they should be large minded enough to admit their mistakes. The ball is in their court."

In the background, was shown the skirmish with Neil Houghton and his car and John's voice threatening to drown out the reporter. In a blink of an eye, a fragment of the press conference just came and went.

"A Home Office spokesman was not available for comment," concluded the interviewer before continuing with some item of pure trivia.

"Just that? The villains. I bet you that the BBC have been nobbled by those crooks," exploded Joe Channing.

"Relax, Joe. This will hit the press as well, not forgetting our worthy ally. They may try to minimize and misrepresent us but I bet you that we'll sleep easier in our beds tonight than Houghton will. Now drink up," Monty replied in hearty tones.

"That sounds a good idea. Draw a chair up for George, my splendid daughter and someone find an ice bucket. We'll make this a day to remember."

Several hours later, a very prim and disapproving Vera stomped downstairs, dressed immaculately in her most unbearably pink suit. In contrast, the crowd of six sat with a nearly empty bottle between them and talking loudly. They seemed to be engaging with some long running joke that only they could understand.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," She said looking at Morag.

"Why, just because I can drink these three under the table?" Morag retorted, waving her glass vaguely in Vera's direction.

"I'll give you a run for your money, Morag," muttered George. She was surprised to find that she was holding up better than she expected. "And our prison Governor," Added George. "Still looks mildly sober."

"Monty, you are hanging out with bad and disreputable company. Must you disgrace yourself? I have my reputation to maintain amongst all the other judge's wives."

"Vera, I have mixed with people here and others who were outside the Home Office with us who are the very salt of the earth."

"I don't know what I did to deserve this."

"Vera," Monty retorted in firm, unyielding tones. "John knows very well why he has been persecuted and he has done nothing wrong, quite the opposite. We would be totally spineless if we didn't stand up for him and for freedom. Now will you have the goodness to either join in or go away and let us get on in peace with some serious drinking?"

As Vera stomped off in high dudgeon, Joe refilled their glasses with generous measures.

"I'll never drink malt whisky again," groaned John, his head in his hands, as George discreetly poured him a cup of strong coffee on Saturday morning. They had gathered at the obvious strike headquarters which was the judge's digs. The newspapers were spread discreetly on the table, including a mysterious brown envelope. They had covered the strike more or less sympathetically, but in the envelope, he and the merry band of men and women were centre stage on Page 1, with an excellent write up. Somehow, he managed to upstage everyone else in the front page photo. He had never achieved this amount of fame in his student days.

There was a knock on the door and Morag breezily walked in, looking as cool and as fresh as she ever did. It hurt his eyes to look at her.

"They say that sex is the best cure for everything," came her cool voice from out of his line of vision.

"For the first time in my life, Morag, I can definitely say it does have its limitations. I would never have believed it."


	67. Chapter 67

Part Sixty-Seven

Neil Haughton sat rigidly in his seat and stared forwards as he was driven away down into the secure fastness of the Home Office underground car park away. He tried to block his ears from hearing the riotous sounds of the unruly out of control mob that echoed after him. He was desperate to escape from his worst nightmare, Deed being the obvious ringleader who had obviously orchestrated this mayhem. Only when he arrived at the clinical empty brightness of his destination did he start to feel safe. He suddenly realized that he was trembling all over and hoped his driver wasn't noticing. He wasn't to know that all the driver was concerned about was in dropping off his customer and heading off through the crowd for his next call. Just why the crowd outside had it in for this guy wasn't his business. Neil Haughton stomped out of the car, petulantly grabbing his briefcase from the driver who shrugged his shoulders. He'd get paid for the job and that was all that mattered to him.

He rode up smoothly in the lift, which swept him upwards to his office. As he passed through the quiet hustle and bustle and into his office, he drew a breath of relief. At least, everything was working normally here. For one second, the illusion of normality reigned until the sickening thought came back to haunt him that, as of this moment, the machinery of justice was likely to have come to a grinding halt if Deed and the other malcontents had their way. Just at this moment, the permanently worried expression of Sir Percy Thrower came into view and Neil Haughton's expression tightened. He knew it was bad news.

"So just how many of London's courts are still functioning?" he said in biting tones. The way it was phrased demanded that the civil servant put a positive spin on the news. That was precisely the problem. The trouble with the number zero was that it was so pitilessly blunt and final, not susceptible to any suitable adjustment. Life was so unfair, the man in the expensive pin-striped Saville Row suit thought so woefully.

"I'm afraid, minister, that the news isn't hopeful. I may be wrong but I've yet to hear if any court is actually conducting trials though, of course, normal clerical work is being undertaken, you know housekeeping work that never gets done because of urgent work."

Neil Haughton's black expression dashed the faint look of a hope that had dawned on the man's face as if he were a dog that had just remembered where the bone was buried.

"Housekeeping? The British taxpayer doesn't pay over hard earned money to employ housewives," Neil Haughton shouted, spitting out the last words with contempt. He would never admit it but he got a kick out of venting his spleen on those too much under his thumb and also too cowardly to fight back. All he knew was that he needed that release right now. "You go and tell me for definite just how many courts are open if you know what's good for you."

As Sir Percy Thrower retreated through the door, his mind was totally confused. He thought he had made himself quite clear, in fact fairly blunt by his standards. Just how on earth could he be expected to conjure a working courtroom out of nothing? He was a past master in adjusting figures to cast a more favourable slant on the situation but he had to have something there to work with in the first place. Gloomily, he went through the motions of the investigations knowing well enough what the results would be, phoning up each court in turn.

As Neil Haughton sat in his room gloomily considering the situation, his preoccupations started to wend their way towards the forthcoming cabinet meeting. He knew only too well that the 'blame game' was king in this cut-throat world. The problem was that fellow cabinet members were also political rivals in career advancement. Added to that, the sheer unpredictability of modern life along with cabinet reshuffles meant that the blame for a spectacular failure might rest with the unfortunate sucker who had only recently taken up the cabinet post while the real author of political failure sneaks off to take up another post. The system was blatantly unfair but so it was those who lost at the wrong call in the endless game of casino politics. Looking at the situation, it could be argued that it was his plans that had led the wretched cantankerous judges going on strike. Yet equally, Sir Alan Peasemarsh bore formal responsibility for the conduct of the judges and reasonable demarcation principles meant that formally, Sir Alan should formally carry the can. Naturally, these thought swirled around at the bottommost depths of his mind.

His rage at being publicly humiliated by Deed had scarcely abated by this time and his psyche demanded the presence of Sir Ian to investigate why his departments of legal 'stick in the muds' had fallen down on the job. Strictly speaking, he had no business in subjecting the man to his form of inquisition and bypassing the minister to whom he was responsible but Neil Haughton knew that his particular status allowed him this little luxury. Just as 'The Restaurant' would stay open for him despite its official closing time, he knew also just how much his prestige permitted him deference outside the official lines of responsibility. Sir Ian knew very well that his career advancement depended on 'keeping in' with those who mattered, who had influence and he prided himself on being just such a person.

It was with this deadly cocktail of anger and puffed up ego swilling around his nervous system that Sir Ian meekly attended his office. Sir Ian knew very well what would happen after his intelligence had found out that every single court in London was closed. He dared not think just what high profile cases had been brought to a shuddering halt and of the smiles on the faces of the criminal underworld at some nameless functionary having to explain that 'due to events beyond our control, the court is closed for business today.' He allowed himself one small luxury that it wasn't he who would have to face the snide questioning from the opposite sides of the house. The trouble was that Haughton wouldn't let him have that luxury, as he would make sure that his misery would be shared around.

"So tell me, Ian, why the hell haven't all the pen-pushers in the LCD given me the slightest idea that there would be all this mayhem?"

Sir Ian felt the inside of his shirt collar with discomfort. It was the very same question he'd asked himself. The real answer was that Deed and his cronies had organized themselves so secretly and so efficiently that his normal sources of information had comprehensively malfunctioned. Behind him, the wide screen TV had been switched on

And the camera zoomed in to show Deed resplendent in his red robes and wig set against a brilliant blue sky. In his own sanctimonious way, he was sounding off to the press on his favourite soapbox.

'If they have minds, then they can be open to reason and they should be large minded enough to admit their mistakes. The ball is in their court."

"Who the hell does he think he is, the 'baker's boy,' the spokesman of the people? Unlike him, I have to face the electorate every five years if not sooner," Neil Haughton exclaimed angrily.

For once in his life, Sir Ian prayed that Deed would get good exposure for the very sound reason that the more Haughton's petulant anger were kept directed and focused at Deed, the less it would come his way.

"His behaviour is totally deplorable, of course. He has no standards of decorum. He positively revels in the limelight and has done untold damage to the reputation of the system of justice."

"If I could get my hands round his neck, I would wring the life out of him," Neil Haughton, Home Secretary, shouted impotently his face red with rage.

"Quite," Sir Ian replied, a little embarrassed at the man's uncouth behaviour. The problem was that the tone of his voice was chillier than was prudent as the politician turned round to the one man who would be fall guy and expended all his venom at him. Deep down, he knew that the man wasn't going to answer him back.

"You haven't answered my question, Ian. Why didn't the idiots in your department find out what was going on?"

"It's a difficult matter. At one time, we had good informal relationships with the judges but they aren't what they used to be. Either we perhaps counted too much on Deed's recent sexual escapades or else the move to impeach him had the unfortunate side effect of drawing the brethren together against us."

"But you were all for it, Ian. You can't worm your way out of that easily," Neil Haughton snapped back querulously.

Sir Ian drew in his breath and he could feel himself get tremblingly angry. It was a very unfamiliar sensation for such a cold-blooded man. Finally he spoke.

"There's one thing you have to face, if you don't mind me putting it this way…………."

Sir Ian stood aghast at the boldness of his manner. In civil service talk, his was coded talk for 'Minister, you have been a complete bloody fool and it's all your fault.' Nevertheless, he charged in with a boldness that felt sickeningly reckless and might mean career suicide.

"If you weren't so obsessed with beating Deed at everything, this disaster might not have happened. You've personalized the whole thing and the problem is that two can play at that game. The problem is that the opposition have played it rather well."

"I came round for constructive suggestions not for 'being wise after the event,'" Neil Haughton growled, an unpleasant glare in his blue eyes as he sneered at Sir Ian.

"Have it your way," Sir Ian said in a resigned tone of voice, studiously looking at his fountain pen so that the man couldn't see how he was smirking. "It might be worth sounding out Sir Percy Thrower while I'll compare notes with the Attorney General."

There it was at last, the reappearance of rules and regulations, Neil Haughton fumed. He had come into the government in the first place to get rid of such stodgy thinking. He realized that he was wasting his time so he turned on his heel, stalked out and loudly slammed the door behind him. He really hoped the door hinges really hurt.

Inside, Sir Ian smiled to himself for no clear reason. After all, the day was a complete disaster.


	68. Chapter 68

A/N: I promised Little Dorrit a scene of this nature five years ago. So if you're still out there reading, here it is. The recipe for the chocolate mousse can be found on page 543 of Delia Smith's Complete Cookery Course.

Part Sixty Eight

Two days earlier on the Thursday evening, George had phoned Connie, and asked her if she would like to come over for dinner on Saturday. Agreeing with alacrity, Connie privately hoped that this might be George's way of saying yes to their possibly becoming closer than they already were. Having ascertained that there wasn't anything Connie didn't eat besides offal for obvious reasons, George remembered something her father had told her on Wednesday. He had been shooting the weekend before, something that he said he didn't seem to find enough time for at the moment, but had brought back a brace of young hen pheasants. So, by Saturday, George had thought in delight, they would have been hanging in her father's enormous larder for a week, and therefore she could conceivably use one of them in a meal for herself and Connie, which would just be the first stage in her plan of seduction.

Having taken a taxi home after the drinking session after the strike yesterday, George took the tube back to the Judges' digs to fetch her car. She thankfully didn't feel particularly hung over, which was frankly astonishing after the amount she'd put away with the rest of them the night before. But when she called in on her father, she saw that he was definitely suffering from his excesses.

"I would tell you what the best cure for a hang over is," She told him blithely after kissing his cheek. "But you look as though even that form of exercise would probably kill you."

"If only," He grumbled, hiding his slight embarrassment in a mug of black coffee.

"I came over to see if I could pilfer one of those pheasants you shot last weekend?" George asked, praying that he wouldn't ask what she wanted it for.

"I don't see why not. Are you cooking John a celebratory dinner?"

"No, not as such," George replied, not quite meeting his eyes.

"All right," Joe said hurriedly. "I really don't want to know," Thinking that Connie Beauchamp must be special if George was cooking pheasant for her.

When George got home after making a detour to the supermarket on the way, she put the pheasant in the fridge. The day before, Joe's housekeeper had plucked and drawn both birds so that all George had to do with this one was cook it. But the first thing she did towards the meal she would hopefully impress Connie with, was to make the home made chocolate mousse for the pudding. Chocolate, especially dark chocolate, was rich, sexy, and in a small quantity, gloriously light and sensual. She melted the dark dessert chocolate in a bowl over a simmering saucepan of water, and separated two eggs, beating the egg yolks into the melted chocolate, and leaving the mixture to cool. After beating the egg whites, she folded them into the chocolate mixture, and spooned this into two ice-cream glasses, and put it in the fridge to chill. After removing the ingredients that needed to be prepared for the starter, to be slightly closer to room temperature and therefore easier to work with, George went round the house, doing any last minute cleaning that if she was honest with herself really wasn't necessary. But this was special, she kept inwardly insisting, as though she was trying to convince another person that she wasn't behaving a little like a fifteen-year-old getting ready to go on her first date. She put on the Carolyn Dawn Johnson CD that she'd first borrowed from Karen, of which Karen had bought George her own copy for her last birthday because she'd liked it so much. The music was light, slightly country, and for the most part cheerful. The lyrics slid from her throat so naturally, and were by now so well known that it made her smile. Was it disloyal to be playing a CD that was so deeply connected with her relationship with Karen, when she was preparing to take her relationship with Connie to a whole new level? Well, George didn't honestly think that Karen would see it as disloyal, so why on earth should she, George, give it a second thought.

As she halved the two pairs and removed the cores, George wondered whether a pair stuffed with stilton would be too heavy before roast pheasant, but she could hardly change her mind now she'd started. Covering the stuffed pairs with Clingfilm, she replaced them in the fridge. All they now required before serving was to add a little salad and a little French dressing. On retrieving the pheasant from the fridge, George realised just what a perfect bird it was for this meal. There would undoubtedly be meat left over, but its breast was beautifully plump which promised a wonderful flavour. Sliding a small lump of butter under its breastbone and laying a thick slice of bacon over the top, she wrapped it in foil and placed it in the oven on quite a low heat, to give her time to have a shower and make herself look as though she hadn't spent half the afternoon in the kitchen. But as she washed her hair, and removed every conceivable hair from her beautiful body, George couldn't help but feel really quite nervous at the possible ending this evening may have. It was a very different kind of nervousness to that which she had felt before sleeping with Karen, or with Jo, because whilst Connie hadn't ever slept with a woman before, she would undoubtedly expect the best of whatever George had it in her to give. Now that she thought about it, George realised that she hadn't actually made love to Jo since before her attempted overdose. That was what, six months ago, or almost. But making love wasn't something you forgot how to do, not even if you went without it for some considerable time. Telling herself to stop being ridiculous, George chose a blue skirt that was fairly short, though not too short, with a pale blue silk blouse. She couldn't really get away with wearing low-cut things anymore with one of her breasts being false, so she had to count on her still very pretty legs being the main attraction. As she went downstairs, she could smell the wonderful aroma of the pheasant just beginning to emerge, definitely filling the house with the tantalising hint of seduction.

When Connie arrived on the dot of seven, George went to let her in with a smile of anticipation.

"You have no idea how entirely welcome this is," Connie said as she moved into the hall. "I thought I might be late tonight when a heart suddenly became available for one of my patients this morning."

"Was it successful?" George asked, taking Connie's jacket and hanging it up.

"Let's hope so," Connie replied, briefly touching the wood of the hall table. "After being on my feet in theatre for nearly five hours, it is wonderful to have a chance to relax." They stood, momentarily gazing at each other, as though they were almost unable to believe that they were, finally, alone, with neither of them knowing quite how to proceed.

"It's good to see you," George said, wanting to kick herself for the inanity of her statement.

"I've missed you," Connie replied, also seeming to have difficulty forming a coherent sentence. Moving slowly towards her, giving Connie plenty of time to deny her advance, George kissed her, her heels yet again managing to bring her on a level with the woman she wanted to kiss.

"I've missed that too," Connie replied quietly, putting her arms gently round this beautiful woman whom she wanted to know so much more about. George laughed huskily.

"I do believe that impatience may be just one of your little quirks."

"I'll wait for as long as necessary when I know that the eventual outcome is worth waiting for."

"Then let's hope I live up to expectation," George replied dryly, moving out of Connie's embrace and walking towards the kitchen. "Would you like a drink?" Agreeing that a drink was definitely a good idea, Connie followed her, taking in the subtle yet expensive style of George's house.

"Whatever you're cooking," Connie said as George handed her a glass of red wine, "It almost smells like chicken, but not quite."

"It's pheasant," George told her, "My father went shooting last weekend and brought back two of them, so I decided to make use of one. I hope you have no objection to eating it."

"No, not at all," Connie said with a broad smile. "The only time I've had pheasant, was when Michael and I went to his parents' for Christmas, not long after we were married, not an experience I was eager to repeat."

"Eating pheasant or spending time with your in-laws?"

"Oh, the latter, definitely. Michael's mother asked far too many questions about my own parents, that at the time, I couldn't answer in anything resembling an adequate fashion." Connie watched as George dropped chunks of chopped parsnip into the blender, with cream, lemon juice and black pepper. They didn't talk over the noise of the blender, but as George was transferring the parsnip puree into a small bowl, Connie asked,

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course," George replied, briefly glancing at Connie over her shoulder.

"As you appear to possess some considerable skill and ingenuity when it comes to cooking, how on earth, did you land on avoiding food as a coping mechanism?" Preparing to open the oven door to check on the meat, George stood staring at Connie, with the oven gloves dangling from her left hand.

"If I'm honest," George answered carefully. "I'm not entirely sure which came first, the Anorexia or the interest in cooking. As I grew older, and definitely when I was married to John, it became somewhat expedient to divert his, or anyone else's interest onto whatever I had cooked, and away from what I wasn't eating."

"I'm sorry," Connie said quietly. "I probably shouldn't have asked."

"I can talk about that a lot more freely than I can about other things," George told her with a shrug, removing the pheasant from the oven, and adding a small glass of the red wine before basting it, and returning it to the oven. With the pheasant still gently cooking, and the baby new potatoes and the carrots ready to put on to boil when the time was right, George removed the stilton stuffed pairs from the fridge, placed them on some salad leaves on small plates, and added a little French dressing, before leading Connie into the dining-room, where the table was laid for two.

As Connie carefully sliced into the pair, she could see and smell the stilton that was ripe and glistening in the centre.

"I don't know how," She said, after consuming a delicious mouthful. "But you seem to have hit on my favourite combination of food, that of fruit and strong cheese."

"I will quite happily eat some cheeses when they're all but walking off the plate," George replied after taking a mouthful of her own, the sweet crunchiness of the pair contrasting wonderfully with the soft, aromatic flavour of the stilton.

"Where did you learn to cook?" Connie asked, after taking a sip of the full-bodied red wine in her glass.

"At school," George told her. "My mother died when I was ten, so Daddy insisted on sending me to a very expensive all girls' boarding school, where I would undoubtedly learn that sort of thing. John has tried to teach Charlie the art of cooking over the years, but she doesn't appear to have picked up my real love for it."

"You sound almost bitter," Connie observed quietly, watching George's face in the candle light.

"Resigned to it, not bitter," George replied matter-of-factly. "Charlie lived with John after we separated, and whilst I saw her on a very regular basis, it was John's influence she came under if anyone's."

"Why did she live with John and not with you?" Connie asked, immediately regretting it as she saw the shutters come down over George's eyes. "I appear to be putting my foot in it at every step this evening," Connie said into the silence. "And after you warned me off the subject of Charlie whilst I was in prison, I do know how to turn away from my curiosity." Putting down her knife and fork, George took a sip from her wine, and forced herself to relax.

"Connie, I am well aware, that there are things about yourself, about your past, that you haven't so far shared with me that as your lawyer, I probably do need to know, in order to try and prevent their being discussed at your trial. I know this, because in getting to know you over the last couple of months, it has become clear to me that you will only tell me the bare minimum of what you think I need to know. I have no intention of persisting to ask you what Brian Cantwell is likely to dig up, because I suspect that if I do, you will trust me even less than you do now."

"It's not an issue of trust," Connie assured her. "It's just, well, I am incredibly ashamed of something that happened, something that happened when I was sixteen."

"And I know that you will tell me when you are ready to tell me and not before," George said, reaching out to lay her hand on Connie's that was resting next to her plate. "So, I won't ask what you are keeping from me, I won't ask what made you begin to sleep with men for money, and I won't ask why you briefly looked highly disturbed, when I referred to my father as Daddy, which I have done for as long as I can remember." Connie stared at George, utterly gobsmacked.

"And I thought that I was good at observing facial expressions," She said, realising just how much she really had met her match in George.

"I give you my word," George promised her. "That on the day you tell me about the event that you are so ashamed of, I will tell you about Charlie."

When they had eaten their starters and George went back into the kitchen to remove the pheasant from the oven to rest, and put the carrots and new potatoes onto boil, Connie again followed her, watching as George's skilful hands drained the juices from the roasting tin to make the gravy.

"Does John often cook for you?" Connie asked.

"Yes, sometimes," George replied. "I came home last Friday, to find that he'd been here and borrowed my food processor as well as one of my cook books. He was on one of his numerous missions to feed me up and take care of me last weekend. He said that as he had cooked for you the week before, he felt as though he needed to redress the balance."

"I keep thinking that I really shouldn't have slept with him," Connie admitted a little ruefully.

"The day you left prison," George told her. "I was certain that you and John would happen at some point before your trial, so it isn't something you should dwell on. If you and I were still as unknown to each other as we were at Barbara's trial, then yes, I definitely would have had a problem with it, but as I do know you now an awful lot better than I did then, it honestly doesn't bother me. I had dinner with Ric and Karen that night, and when I left, I couldn't decide where I most wanted to be, in bed with you and John, or in bed with Karen and Ric. So, feeling as miserable as sin, and having a complete aversion to anything remotely sexual, I came home." Picking up the small bowl of parsnip puree, George moved over to the microwave, knowing that all it needed was a couple of minutes heating through. As she turned from the microwave, she caught sight of Connie's face. Connie was staring at her in a mixture of curiosity, sadness, and sexual interest. "What?" George asked her, moving back towards the cooker to keep an eye on the saucepans.

"That little statement has unleashed several random questions that are now ricocheting round my head. Why would you want to be with me and John? Why would you have wanted to stay with Karen and Ric? And why didn't you do either?" George laughed, slightly leaning against the work surface waiting for everything to be ready for serving.

"Well, being with you and John is obvious, because you are both incredibly sexy, and because I think you could both have given me the best night of my life. I was feeling especially off the rails that week, so randomly sleeping with someone whom I've never slept with before would account for Ric, and at times like that part of me will always want to seek out the old familiar spark that still occasionally rears its head between me and Karen. As for why I went home, well, like I said, I felt unbearably miserable and wouldn't have been any sexual use to any of you." The almost dull quality of George's voice as she confessed this last part tugged at something in Connie, making something hurt inside her that she couldn't at that moment identify. Walking over to George, Connie put her arms round her.

"It wasn't sex that you were really looking for, was it."

"No," George admitted, not quite meeting Connie's eyes. "And if I thought I was remotely capable of successfully pulling the wool over any of those four sets of all too knowing eyes, then I might have decided differently."

"Let's get one thing clear," Connie told her quietly, tilting George's face up to meet hers. "If and when we go to bed together, and no, I'm not assuming that it will be tonight, but if when we do, I do something for you that either isn't good enough or is something that you don't like, I don't ever want you to try and fake it with me. I'm damned sure that John wouldn't ever want that from you, and I can promise you that I don't either."

"Just as long as you don't attempt to hide any disappointment from me," George replied, looking deep into Connie's violet eyes.

"then we have a deal," Connie told her, gently kissing this beautiful, utterly complex woman, their kiss being deeper, longer, and far more intense than any they had yet shared.

When they again sat across from each other at the table, Connie took in the combined aromas of the food in front of her. Tender roast pheasant with a little crispy bacon, baby new potatoes, carrots, parsnip puree and red wine gravy.

"Well, here's to my father's skill with a twelve bore," George said, pouring herself and Connie another glass of red wine. After eating a forkful of the meat, Connie broke into a broad smile.

"To fathers with twelve bores," She said, "That is utterly delicious. Your father really does know how to shoot." After sampling the silky parsnip puree, she asked, "Does he know who you are entertaining this evening?"

"He almost certainly has an inkling," George replied, taking a certain measure of pride in the success of her cooking so far. "Though if I dare to approach the subject of the highly unprofessional friendship I am engaged in with you, he exudes an air of disapproval that I don't think I've witnessed since I was in my teens." Connie grinned.

"I think I saw him on the lunchtime news yesterday."

"Yes," George drawled in mock disgust. "Along with John as the instigator, and two other utterly disreputable judges."

"You're proud of them really, especially your father," Connie stated with total certainty.

"Of course I am," George admitted with a smile. "Karen and I were celebrating with the four who were on the news until very late last night. Though quite what ructions took place in the Home office yesterday are anyone's guess. Neil doesn't like it when John manages to get the upper hand, and having been stopped by Daddy and John, never mind anybody else, on his way into work yesterday, well, let's just say that I don't envy those who work for him."

"Why did things end between you and Neil Haughton?"

"He finally resorted to giving me a black eye to shut me up. John was, frighteningly angry when he caught up with Neil the day after. I've only once been very briefly afraid that I had made John angry enough to slap me, but he never has, and he never would." They ate in silence for a little while, until George returned to the subject of her father. "How did you know it was my father you were looking at on the news?"

"You have his eyes," Connie told her instantly. "When he was saying his piece yesterday, your father looked as deadly as you did when you tore strips off me in court last February. It was immediately obvious where the Channing fire had sprung from." George smiled. "I couldn't ever have asked for a better father. He might not believe in the expressing of real feelings very often, but I wouldn't have Daddy any other way." As she said the word Daddy, George again took in the brief flicker in Connie's eyes. There was something odd going on behind those deep, violet orbs, something she didn't as yet understand.

As George removed their virtually empty plates from the table, Connie said,

"Do you mind if I have a cigarette?"

"Feel free," George told her. "I just need to add something to an extremely light pudding, and while it sits for a few minutes I will join you." Taking the two glasses of chocolate mousse from the fridge, George ran a very fine skewer through the mousse a few times, before adding a small amount of brandy to soak into each, before returning them to the fridge to settle. Going into the lounge, she found Connie seated at one end of the sofa. Sitting down at the other end, George lit a cigarette of her own. Connie was looking with obvious interest at the Monet above the fireplace and the Stubbs above the piano.

"John said that you played," Connie said, nodding towards the piano.

"He doesn't hear me play as often as he would like," George replied with a fond smile. "Daddy gave it to us as a wedding present. I think it was his way of making sure I didn't stop playing."

"Quite right too," Connie agreed. "If your voice is anything to go buy, your playing isn't a talent that should be wasted."

When they returned to the table, and George presented Connie with her home made chocolate mousse, lightly decorated with cream, Connie groaned in theatrical delight.

"I do occasionally have a weakness for chocolate," She said as George sat down opposite her.

"Show me a woman who doesn't," George said matter-of-factly. As Connie savoured the combination of dark chocolate with a subtle trace of alcohol, she began to feel the faint stirrings of sexual arousal. As the beautiful concoction slid gloriously and sensually down her throat, Connie realised that this rich, romantic, fabulously executed meal in itself was part of George's seduction. George was behaving as though this was the most sensual thing she could offer, almost as though she doubted that Connie would enjoy what may or may not happen between them later on. George had been displaying one of her talents, that of preparing a deliciously sumptuous meal. Connie suspected that if she asked George to play the piano for her, she would, showing off yet another of her talents. But Connie could feel a slight nervousness in George, a very occasional hint that if she did sleep with Connie, George was almost putting herself on course to fail to satisfy her. But Connie wouldn't broach this topic of conversation now, not in fact, until the issue of whether they would or wouldn't move their relationship to that level this evening had been discussed.

After Connie had helped George to put everything except their wine glasses into the dishwasher, they returned to the lounge, and both lit up cigarettes.

"That was an incredible meal, thank you," Connie said as she exhaled.

"I wanted to give you something special," George replied, watching Connie as she relaxed into the opposite corner of the sofa.

"You've given me that just by being yourself," Connie told her, immediately blushing at the way the unguarded comment had sprung from her lips. "Sorry," She said, "I've definitely had too much red wine to come out with something like that."

"Unplanned statements are always the most meaningful," George said, smiling softly at her. Looking over at the piano, Connie said,

"Please will you play for me?"

"Yes, if you like," George agreed with a smile, almost knowing that this request would have come at some point during the evening.

"John's description was that you play like an angel," Connie told her as George moved towards the piano.

"Then in that case," George replied with a smirk. "I had better play the piece that he once asked me to play naked for him. Though I don't think that is something I would now do for anyone."

"I doubt you look very different."

"Before Charlie was even thought about, my hair was very long, right down my back, so yes, I did look very different." The knowledge that she had also had two breasts at the time was left unspoken between them. Digging through the several books of music that were piled on top of the piano, George drew out a collection of Chopin's Nocturnes, and turned to the page for the Nocturne in D flat major: Op.27 No.2.

"I hope I can still get my hands round this," She said, propping the book on the music stand and beginning to play.

The tranquillity of the first few bars, instantly lulled Connie into a soft and gentle contemplation of the sound that was emanating from under George's skilful fingers. Realising that she couldn't from her current position see George's face, Connie moved to sit in the large armchair at right-angles to the fireplace, directly opposite the side of the piano. From here, she could watch George's beautiful profile, the soft lighting illuminating her concentration, with her well-manicured fingers lightly tripping over the black and white keys. But gradually, as the piece progressed, the modulating chords becoming ever more entangled, the sliding scales moving from one key to the next, it was as though Connie was witnessing the ups and downs of a volatile and at times tempestuous relationship, with the occasional light-hearted phrases causing the passion to take some brief respite from its bitter and melancholy fluctuations. There was an enormous amount of sadness contained in this piece, but that didn't immediately say that the two people whose personalities were so clearly fighting for dominance, didn't love each other deeply. Each hand was representing one half of the couple, each hand taking it in turns to have it's say, to express it's feelings, and whilst the right hand could definitely be said to be the most temperamental, the most unstable in its existence, the left hand was no less commanding in its presence. Then the right hand would exhibit nothing but prettiness with almost youthful laughter and exuberance, whilst the left hand would exert its masterful control, showing its love by the force of its rhythm and stability. When both hands, that were now very noticeable as male and female, rose to the height of their combined passion, their movements being unhindered and free to exude all their loving togetherness, and at times their furious anger, they would fight for dominance, each alternately assuming their right to be heard, their right to have the final word. Then slowly, and with decreasing explosion and increasing softness, their love would be reaffirmed, and their anger would drain away, leaving the two lovers sated, contented, and eventually quiet.

When George carefully closed the lid of the piano, she looked over to where Connie was gazing at her.

"Is there anything you can't do with those beautiful hands?" Connie asked, almost mesmerised by what she had just heard.

"I doubt I could give someone a new heart as you did this morning," George told her with a smile.

"When I heard your voice on that CD of The Creation," Connie continued. "I knew it was you, but somehow it didn't entirely feel as though it was you, probably because I'd never before suspected that you could sing like that. But hearing you play, it's something else entirely. I'm not sure if you're aware of it, but you really do open your soul when you're playing. I think I've just learnt more about yours and John's relationship than you could ever have told me in a million years."

"Karen learnt a lot about just me as a person, the first time I played for her," George replied. "It didn't seem to have quite that effect on Jo, but then she had already known me for years." Connie privately thought that Jo simply hadn't wanted to know George with the same depth as Karen had and as she, Connie, did now, but she didn't say as much. Getting up from the piano stool, George moved over to Connie, sitting down in the enormous armchair beside her.

"So," She said, putting her left arm around Connie. "If that piece was all about mine and John's relationship, which hand was representing who?"

"Oh, you were the right hand without a doubt," Connie told her with a smirk. "All that fiery anger, all the complex melancholy and definitely most of the passion, that was all you. You had your calmer, happier moments, but they were few and far between."

"And how does that sudden overload of revelation compare with what you want from me?" George asked her, not entirely seriously.

"I want to know everything," Connie told her, never more serious in her life. "Everything you are, everything you feel, everything that you think you can't say to me. There isn't anything I don't want to know about you, good, bad or indifferent. We both have flaws, and we both have skeletons, things that in time, we may come to understand about each other." Feeling an overwhelming feeling of fondness towards this woman, George kissed her, knowing that what she wanted now above anything else was to take Connie to her bed, and to make long, glorious, delicious love to her.

When they entered George's bedroom, Connie couldn't quite believe she was finally here. She knew that it hadn't been all that long since she'd first contemplated the idea of sleeping with George, but right now it felt like a lifetime.

"We aren't likely to get a visit from someone else at this time, are we?" Connie asked, the thought of John's inopportune arrival slightly disturbing her.

"No, certainly not," George told her with a laugh, her hands moving to the buttons on Connie's blouse. "John is aware that it must be a matter of life and death for him to disturb me this evening." Connie smirked.

"You told him, didn't you."

"One of my purposes in life is to make him jealous," George replied, her lips entangling with Connie's as both sets of hands began removing the other's clothes. But as Connie moved to undo George's bra, George suddenly grew very self-conscious. Turning away from Connie, she tried to hide the removal of her false breast. Gently turning George back to face her, Connie put her arms around her, removed George's bra, and after folding it over the false breast, laid it down on the dressing-table. George had automatically raised her left arm to cover herself, but Connie gently persuaded her to lower it.

"It really doesn't put me off, you know," Connie told her quietly, briefly reaching out to touch her fingertips to the scar that was in place of George's left breast.

"I don't think I'll ever be sure of that, with anyone," George replied, distracting both of them by removing the rest of their clothes.

When they met under the duvet, their soft skin slid together so tantalisingly that Connie immediately sought out George's lips.

"God, you're beautiful," George told her honestly, running her hands over Connie's back and shoulders.

"Mm, that's nice," Connie replied.

"Though I have to say," George told her between kisses. "That you are infinitely more beautiful now that you're in my bed, than you were when I saw you on John's sofa." Connie laughed huskily.

"You looked me up and down that day as though you were about to pay for my services," She said with a broad smile.

"I did not!" George said indignantly. "Actually, maybe I did," She admitted a little sheepishly. "But on that occasion you definitely deserved it."

"It was a bit bizarre really," Connie said with a smile of remembrance. "I'd never had a woman look at me like that before."

"They don't know what they're missing," George replied, tenderly beginning to caress Connie's left breast.

"There's something so sensitive about female hands," Connie said in utter delight.

"Well, I hope this is ten times better than what you might do to yourself," George said, knowing from experience that it was.

"You're not kidding," Connie agreed with her, reaching over to mimic George's movements, George's small, heavy breast fitting wonderfully into her hand.

"So, tell me what you like," George said after a while.

"I'm open to suggestion," Connie told her evasively.

"There must be something you like above everything else," George encouraged her, trailing her hand down over Connie's waist to rest on her hip.

"I do love being given head," Connie replied after a moment's thought.

"And I love giving it," George told her with a slightly predatory smirk.

"I once had a rather delightful little fantasy about you doing that to John." George laughed.

"And when was this?" She asked, kissing her way down until she was gently suckling on Connie's left nipple.

"It was the day you first kissed me," Connie told her a little unsteadily, as George's tongue swiped over Connie's highly aroused flesh. "I'd just had that argument with Ric, so I came home and had a long soak in the bath." George slipped her right hand between Connie's legs, which slightly spread to accommodate her. "I was lying there," Connie continued. "Thinking about how much I wanted to feel safe, to be held, as pathetic as that sounds."

"No, it doesn't," George reassured her, momentarily detaching her lips from Connie's breast, her hand beginning to wander over Connie's silky, hairless labia, discovering to her delight just how aroused Connie already was.

"Then, I started thinking about you, and how you'd looked on the day I was let out of prison. I focused on your lips, and was suddenly presented with the image of those lips wrapped around John's cock."

"Well, how extremely naughty of you," George drawled languorously, before taking Connie's other nipple between the lips she had just described. Connie let out a cry of surprise, as George slipped two fingers inside her, using her thumb to massage Connie's throbbing clitoris. Finding that there was room for it, George slipped in another finger, seeking and finally locating Connie's G spot. Connie couldn't believe how incredible this felt. What George was doing was so simple, yet so fabulously slick and sinful that Connie felt her breathing unmistakably quickening. Her enjoyment mounted, her lust increasing, until her internal muscles squeezed around George's fingers, propelling Connie over the edge into her first female generated orgasm.

But George didn't stop when Connie reached her orgasm, she detached her lips from Connie's right breast, and kissed her way down, gently parting Connie's legs a little further, until she was lying between them. At the feel of George's delicately flickering tongue moving over her labia, Connie tried to stifle the sounds she knew she was about to make.

"Don't try to be quiet on my account," George told her, fondly rubbing her cheek against the inside of Connie's thigh. It slightly astounded Connie to realise just how different it felt, having a woman's face nestling against her delicate flesh. With any man, there was always the slight abrasive quality of facial stubble, no matter how faint, but George's face was obviously completely smooth. When George tasted her, dipping the tip of her tongue into her entrance, Connie couldn't help but marvel at how utterly intimate it felt. Yes, she had undoubtedly enjoyed it enormously when Ric, John and numerous other men had done the same thing to her, but with George it was somehow so much more intense. It didn't feel wrong, or forbidden, in fact it felt more right than sleeping with any man had done in a long time.

"I want to hear every sound you make," George told her, deftly beginning to massage Connie's clitoris with her tongue.

"Do I want to know where you learnt to do that?" Connie asked, partly to cover up the sounds she was now incapable of preventing herself from making.

"Your prison governor," George replied, before thrusting her tongue into Connie's entrance and rubbing her clitoris with the tip of her nose.

"Ask, a silly, question," Connie said between gasps. But when George actually began sucking on her clitoris, Connie let out a shrill cry of such abandon that it made all of George's own nerve endings stand on end. Connie then let out a barely controlled stream of unintelligible phrases, the only understandable one being her occasional utterance of the word fuck. When she crested the peak of her orgasm, every muscle in her seemed to stretch, leaving her twitching and shuddering as the waves of pleasure swept over her.

Moving back up to lie beside Connie, George could see the look of total serenity in Connie's hazy eyes. She was utterly at peace, entirely relaxed, and completely spent.

"I feel quite, stoned," Connie said eventually, turning her face to look a little blearily at this woman who had made her feel such ecstasy.

"I take it I haven't lost the knack in the last few months then?" George replied with a smile.

"God, no," Connie told her drowsily. "You're wonderful." Then, after a few moments' thought, she said, "I'm sorry, if I'm approaching an orgasm as powerful as that one, I say precisely what comes into my head."

"Feel free to say whatever you like when you're in bed with me," George reassured her. "It's nice to know that you feel relaxed enough to do that." Putting out her right arm, Connie encouraged George towards her. When their mouths met, Connie was enchanted to taste herself on such beautiful lips.

"I really ought to return the favour," Connie said after a while.

"You look exhausted," George told her, realising that after having been in theatre all day, the food, the red wine, and the sex had all finally caught up with Connie.

"It would be unforgivable of me not to at the very least attempt to return the favour after that," Connie replied, but even as she said this her eyes began to close, her concentration clearly drifting.

"No it wouldn't," George told her gently. "Go to sleep." When Connie's eyes had finally closed, George reached out for the duvet and pulled it over them, snuggling up close to Connie, resting her cheek against her chest, listening to the reassuring beat of her heart, thinking about everything they'd talked about that evening, until she too fell into a deep contented sleep.


	69. Chapter 69

Part Sixty-Nine

"Have you seen anything of Jo lately? She's been the invisible woman lately as far as I've been concerned," George had said in flat tones on the Saturday morning after the strike. She had been talking with John outside the judges' digs after her cup of strong coffee had enabled him to face the fresh air. George had arrived in a taxi from home bright and early to pick up her car while John had stayed on at the digs.

"I've seen no more of her than you have," John had replied with a studious detachment of tone.

"I'm staying in tonight," George had replied with a particular meaningful look in her eyes.

"Fair enough," John had replied. "I'm in the mood for more male bonding so I'm staying over at the digs. Do you know how time changes things? It's a very long time since they referred to me as the 'baker's boy,'" John added in reflective tones.

"I'm sure you'll enjoy yourself. Your progress is thoroughly deserved. Do make sure you pass on my good wishes and warm approval. You know, I really did enjoy getting drunk with all of you," George had answered with unashamed enthusiasm and a shining light in her eyes.

"Then that's good," John had said with undisguised pleasure. Whatever George might be getting up to wasn't his business and, most of all, nothing he should get worried about. George had known that, but an impulse jumped into her mind just when she had been on the point of heading off home with her cooking plans and Connie in mind.

"I know you, John Deed. You are just itching to know whose company I shall be enjoying. To put you out of your misery, I'm cooking one of Daddy's pheasants for a very special evening with Connie," laughed George. She had never resisted temptation and couldn't see why she should break the resolution of a lifetime.

"You're going to leave me here without any entertainment?" teased John, retaliating in like coin as he always had.

"You don't need it. You'll positively wallow in your newfound status of saviour of the nation," teased back George. John knew that the edge George placed on the last few words was only playacting.

"That's not the same," quipped John. "…….I'm sure both of you will have a splendid evening. I mean it," John added gently, looking and feeling curiously reassured.

George smiled with genuine gentleness in return, kissed him and twirled off on her high heels to set off in her car. As he saw George start to disappear into the horizon, he knew that in fact she never would leave him, emotionally speaking. He was also gratified that he had come such a long way, that he had shed his past insecurities over George's relationships with women, Karen for instance. It put him in a calm, accepting frame of mind, ready to be embraced by the brethren.

Jo had at last plucked up the courage to talk to John. She hadn't believed how the other two had maintained such a sense of detachment from her that she had become, in effect, a non-person. Even the vagaries of the court listing system had somehow conspired to ensure that her opposing barrister was Neumann Mason-Alan and the judge, Monty Everard but never John or George. She was feeling horrendously isolated from all that was dear to her as her first trial as a judge was coming ever closer. Everything combined to finally drive her to broach the sensitive topic of her verbal indiscretion. After all, so she reasoned, she had followed the progress of the strike with undisguised pleasure. She had turned up for duty at court that day and had been happily turned back by one of the more conservative-minded judges who had politely told her that he was picketing the court and could she catch up with reading for her cases at home? She had watched John on TV and he had seemed so curiously real to her on the other side of the TV screen. The news had told her how stupendously successful the strike had been on the television news yesterday. Everything had turned out for the best and her slip-up really hadn't really done any damage after all.

"Is that really you, John? Where are you?" Jo found her saying to her extreme embarrassment. She sounded far too like a gauche, immature schoolgirl for her taste.

"I'm out socializing at the judge's digs," John said, the sounds of raucous laughter and the audible clink of glasses audible to Jo's ears.

"Look here, we really need to talk somewhere private," Jo urged. She had never known John to deny her most urgent wishes.

"That's no problem Jo," John said politely. "I'll fix up a quiet room at the digs. I'll see to it that we won't be disturbed."

Jo readily agreed, feeling that beggars couldn't be choosers although it wasn't the intimate meeting place she would have wanted. As she drove off towards her destination, she had to remind herself that she wasn't flitting out for some secret assignation with John but she had to steel herself for a measure of gracious apology. It wasn't going to be a pleasant experience and her thoughts weren't as organized as she would have liked.

Sure enough, Jo was admitted by the very same butler, Mr. Johnson who had always let her into the digs. He also wore the same look of polite disapproval as always. Maybe, he had been the one to take photographs of her and John when she had arrived very drunk and she had hurled her reproaches at him for his conduct of one of his cases. To her confused mind, she was having trouble in recalling the details, only that it was about this lad who objected to a life-saving operation being forced on him. For the life of her, she couldn't remember what she was angry about but, yes, she was sure that she had every good reason in feeling that way. Finally, John came into the foyer, fresh from the party, which was clearly going well. She had to hand it to John that he was, as ever polite and gracious as he ushered Jo into a quiet room.

"Yes, we do need to talk. There's a lot that's been unsaid for quite some time," John said in measured meditative tones whose precise meanings escaped Jo. She wasn't to know that John wasn't totally sure what he had meant.

"Surely not that long," she said in laughing tones while her eyes swivelled around anxiously. "I mean I was watching the news and I thought that you were quite splendid in striking a blow for freedom and standing up against Neil Haughton and their kind. It means that you are in your rightful place. I'm sure there's no stopping you now. I really am proud of you and everything you've ever done in your life."

John had a curious feeling that he was seeing Jo for the very first time in his life. The perfectly timed emotional tremor in her voice didn't ring true. It crossed his mind that he had never doubted Jo Mills' warmth and sincerity and it was this quality he had admired whenever she performed for him in court. It was after all, a validation of his own strong views as he had been her pupilmaster and his teachings had found her a very receptive audience. He had also known that his own personal behaviour had often fell short of the values that he had espoused and that Jo had assumed the role of his bad conscience. This was glaringly at odds with Jo's final words that it disturbed him. Whatever hadn't she said to him what he hadn't secretly accused himself of in the privacy of his own bed, no matter what female had lain alongside him. Finally, he said what was uppermost on his mind.

"Your congratulations are all very well but I have to tell the truth to you, the same way that I told it on the news. The bottom line is that the strike wouldn't have been necessary if you hadn't opened your mouth in front of Brian Cantwell. The irony is that at one time, I would have previously expected something like that from George rather than from you."

Jo opened her mouth in horror at the unexpected harshness in John's voice, which contrasted vividly with his ostensible politeness. This was the last thing she had expected from John and it rattled her. Worse still was that John was making comparisons between her and George and she came out the worse. She simply wasn't used to that, however much she had seen George in a new light. She hated this feeling of disorientation, as she had always been so certain of her emotional bearings.

"I didn't come round to be abused by you. I thought better of you than that. I just wanted to help mend a few fences," Jo retorted in angry tones

"I'm not sure why you're round here either. I don't know why you still want to see me if what I did with Connie still angers you so much," John replied, feeling an unnatural sense of calm sweeping through his system. Normally, emotional scenes didn't find John at his best, especially with Jo.

"Connie Beauchamp is only important to me as she will be appearing before me, accused of taking the life of one of her patients in case you had forgotten. I would have thought that you'd remain on the same side as me," Jo said in cold clinical tones, trying to be objective and business-like.

John waved away the words dismissively. They weren't worthy of a reply and he didn't bother thinking what Connie Beauchamp might be doing now. It wasn't his business and it certainly wasn't Jo's either.

"Look here, I've said I'm sorry. What more do you want of me? Say it under oath and make my apology really obvious?" Jo pursued in an agitated tone of voice.

"Look here, Jo," John said in firm deliberate tones, looking her unwaveringly in the eye. "When I transgressed in the past, you made it very obvious that my apologies were inadequate. Now you know how it feels to be on the other side of the fence."

"Look, let's forget all this guilt trip and focus on what's important," Jo said, agitation written all over her face. "The important thing is that I love you, always have." This was the last ace in the pack without which she was defenceless.

"Do you?" came the answer, as devastating as it was mild mannered. The absence of spin attached to the question was unnerving as it put her on the spot. Jo immediately thrust her hands into her pockets and started walking round the room, anything to escape the piercing simplicity of John's direct gaze into her soul. For the life of her, she couldn't answer the question.

"How are things going with you and Tom Campbell-Gore for instance?" John pursued when Jo had come round full circle and was facing him once again.

"The affair is over," Jo said shortly.

"So who ended it, you or Tom," John pursued. He wasn't sure if he asked this question to exact a little revenge on Jo for letting the cat out of the bag to Cantwell but, in any case, he had a reputation for inquisitiveness to maintain.

"Tom did it," Jo admitted very reluctantly. She hadn't the slightest shred of a shield to ward off John's relentless questioning as she normally had. They weren't in court and neither did she possess the moral advantage outside court, certainly not her breach of the agreement that she had freely entered into with John and George. "He forced me to realise a few things, that we were going nowhere."

"So now that you have gained a few insights into life, what do you want from me, from both of us right now?"

"I just want you back," Jo uttered, a sudden dam bursting in her mind of all the pent up feelings churning around. To her great relief, she was being totally honest with John and she - and him- could make a clean start.

"I haven't gone anywhere," John replied gravely in that most maddeningly obtuse fashion of his. Was the man being deliberately obtuse or just trying to wind her up. "It isn't just about me or you. You do need to talk to George, you know."

Instantly, John saw a very guarded expression spread across Jo's face. The bitter row she'd had with George came back to her mind and she had the sneaking suspicion that some of her own words were ill judged and harsh when looked at in the cold light of day. When she thought about it, it was George's accusation of having slept her way into becoming a barrister. George had hit a very sensitive nerve, namely Jo's Puritan work ethic in the way she had consistently dedicated her work to her causes. Needless to say, what she felt was at odds with what she eventually said while John's eyes were on her.

"George and I were both equally to blame for the row we'd had," Jo said very defensively. "You know what George's temper is like."

The short, withering glance John directed at Jo struck down that line of argument straightaway as if the sword she'd been carrying disintegrated in her hand. John reminded her very forcibly that this was a case of six of one and half a dozen of the other and that at least George was upfront about her temper, never trying to rationalize it away.

"I don't care what the argument was about, but you certainly shouldn't have slapped her. There's no excuse for that sort of behaviour and well you know it," John pronounced firmly.

"So how do you really feel about me? We've been around each other for so long," she burst out at last. For once, her barrister's training had completely deserted her and she was totally unprepared for whatever John might say.

"I've missed you," John said instantly, picking up the desperation in Jo's voice and wanting to be as honest as he'd urged Jo to be, "…..but I'm happy with my life."

This threw Jo into a complete quandary. She obviously didn't want John to be miserable, or more precisely, she shouldn't want him to feel that way yet she also wanted him to mean something in her life. John had said that she did. She didn't know how that added up so she said the first words that came into her head.

"So how is it between you and George?" she blurted out.

"I'm very happy with her whatever she does, happier than when we were first married." The consistently honest simplicity in John's voice, language and body language was unnerving Jo.

"So where do we go from here?" Jo suggested. Every time they had had rows in the past, they had always kissed and made up and when she was making love with John this was a time when she was truly content with the world. It was the morning after when things went wrong.

"For me, it's back to the party. For you Jo, you are a free citizen. You must know that this time the shoe is on the other foot and you have a lot of work to do to regain my undiluted approval. You know exactly that I'm not being unfair- or unloving."

"Well, I can't make you feel what you don't want to feel," admitted Jo shakily. For the first time she had talked to John, a faint smile lit his face and it was something to do with her.

"I do want to help you, but I don't want to see you again until you have apologized to George for slapping her," John said, turning on his heel. "If you excuse me, I have company to keep. The butler will see you out."

There it was. She wasn't entirely out in the cold but, in relation to the warmth that she craved, it felt as if she was. In all Jo's confusions as she walked past the sounds of partying, at least this time the butler had no beans he could spill to the LCD and hopefully it would eat the man's heart out.


	70. Chapter 70

Part Seventy Dressed in his tuxedo, John was in a somber mood. He had eaten his share of the sumptuous dinner before him as he exchanged sporadic polite conversation with the fellow judge next to him. He was bored out of his brains as fate had shuffled the cards so that he was not sitting near Morag, Monty or Joe with whom he could have struck up a lively conversation. In any case, the lord mayor's banquet for the judges cast a suffocating spell on the proceedings so that all the entrenched weight of tradition conspired to drag his spirits down. He readily conceded respect for the professional traditions of ancient liberties but not this deadening, soul destroying conformity. The worst of it was that the rebel in him was screaming for release but he felt impotent to make a dent in the proceedings.

For these reasons, no matter what delicacies were placed before him, they had all turned to ashes in his mouth. As he ate, it crossed his mind what the long ago boy from the Coventry council house would think if he saw him now. He hoped that he would understand him, that he gave him credit for not being blinded by the trappings of wealth even if only because he had achieved his share of public fame and material comforts. He would like to think that he had come to differentiate the cheap and tawdry from that which had real substance, whatever the social standing. Such social awareness made him groan inwardly at this necessary compromise to the pervasive alcohol fuelled bonhomie of the brethren. The speech by the lord mayor of London was as platitudinous as he had feared and the predicted feelings of excruciating boredom had set in within the first couple of minutes. His only escape was to let his mind drift off to some happier place while his mouth made the appropriate sounds to those around him.

He braced himself for a repeat dose of mental torture when the toast was called as the lord chief justice rose to his feet to deliver the usual expected onslaught of verbal diarrhoea. He anticipated the sort of speech rhythms but it slowly dawned on him that this speech was paced differently. The speaker cut short the usual preliminary pleasantries in very short order and, in short order, he launched into a sturdy defence of the judiciary. John's hearing switched from minimal functioning mode to that half believing sense of excitement. He was ahead of the brethren in rapidly adjusting to the new world opening up before his eyes. Instantly, he felt as energized as he had felt on the picket line or, alternatively, with those kind of feelings of delicious anticipation immediately prior to making love.

The others were slower to react than John as he glanced out of the corner of his vision at their rows of blank faces, wearing their best polite faces, as their heads turned to stare at the man at the head of the table. One exception was the true blue Vera, hideous in the most garish overdone dress imaginable and dripping with pearls, who glared in helpless anger and utter astonishment. By contrast, Monty positively beamed in combative joy, his memory having taken him back to when he had watched John address the pack of journalists surrounding him and, in his quietest way, trounce the lot of them except , of course, their rather outlandish but very useful ally in the Bolshevik extremes of society. Sir Ian and Lawrence James were the other two exceptions. Because of his complexion, Lawrence James found it next to impossible to go red with anger but his face visibly swelled up with suppressed rage while Sir Ian's fingers wrapped themselves round a cocktail stick and snapped it in worst of it was that a couple of the most unreliable newshounds were frantically scribbling away as this traitorous subversive talk unreeled itself in slow motion. He felt as if he were strapped in his seat, watching a film against his wishes. The man must have had too much to drink, he muttered, to find some cause of his accustomed world spinning off his axis. He glared diagonally past the ornamental silver cruets across to the space where John sat, further away from his privileged space next to the speaker. John caught his glance and smiled his most innocent smile. The look said it clearly enough that it was not his fault that his influence had spread further than he had dared imagine. By contrast, the light of battle was gleaming in Joe Channing's eyes as if to say that the man who he had figured as a careerist bench polisher was at last showing some spirit. .

At the end of the speech, the audience rose as one and fervently applauded the speech till their hands were sore. As the clapping died away, eyes were turned to see what the next speaker would say to top that one. John was intrigued to see that it was Alan Peasemarsh, the stiff and unbending Attorney General who was preparing to speak. He's between a rock and a hard place, John reflected with amusement, between an intolerant government and a roomful of fired up judges. They were clearly not in the mood for mealy mouthed weasel words , especially because their profession had sharpened their wits to slice through any meaningless double speak and sheer waffle.

The man was the very embodiment of the spirit of the playing fields of Eton of 'playing up, playing up and playing the game' so long as it was according to establishment rules. He had remained blank faced as the lord chief justice had got his bit between his teeth and charged headlong into his speech. The only sign of how flustered he felt inside was the way he repeatedly ran his comb through his thin white hair. This event called for tricky tactics and adroitly, he judged it best to keep his speech short and sharp and to position himself neatly between this hotbed of subversion and the government he served. As his mind churned in turmoil, he recalled the way the shabby treatment handed out by the gutter press to the sentence passed by recorder on a paedophile Craig Sweeney last month. To his fastidious mind, he had always considered his colleagues in the cabinet were entering into far too intimate a relationship with intellectual primitives who adopted the caveman approach. Besides, he thought it judicious to be seen to stand up for the brethren once in a while. He thought he could square the matter with enough of the cabinet to keep his yard arm clean. He rounded out his speech by stringing together some vague pleasantries and was content to receive a polite round of applause. In such a dangerously overheated atmosphere, he was glad to be upstaged .

"Ah John, good to see you." Sir Ian said with a tight smile on his face that was more of a grimace after they got up from the table and started to circulate for an after dinner drink in the sumptuous banqueting hall.

"I would never miss the opportunity for all of us to get together, for old times sake. I have a weakness for the old traditions," retorted John blandly.

"I imagine that you dream of putting them all on the bonfire," Snapped Sir Ian. "I suppose you were responsible for this fiasco."

"Me?" protested John. "Why do you suppose that I am responsible for all the demonstrations of public spiritedness that take place?"

"Because it usually is." Hissed Sir Ian, rattled by that ugly word 'demonstration.' It smacked of mob rule, lawlessness and anarchy.

"Ah but you see, Ian, once an idea takes off and becomes common currency, then the last way it can be described is as a conspiracy. Like minded people come to join in of their own volition and add their own contribution. It takes on a life of its own."

"Ah but there's always a trouble maker at the back of it, pulling the strings."

"Excuse me, I don't 'make trouble' as you put it. The trouble, if you care to call it, comes from overmighty authority and those who throw away their conscience and are too spineless to resist injustice. You and your cronies have had years of chances to act as you should have done. Because of your abject failures, others have had to step in to remedy the situation. I'm not the outsider these days, Ian," John finished curtly, gesturing to Monty and Joe who bustled their way in their direction.

"So I see," Sir Ian said dryly before turning on his heel and trying to find congenial company besides Lawrence James, his ever faithful retainer. He felt uncomfortable being in a minority at the one occasion when he least expected it.

"Well, John, it seems that so far from being sent to Coventry, we shall be sent to the Strand or any other court where our services are needed."

John chuckled at Monty's witticism as the lord chief justice made a beeline in their direction.

"That was the stuff to give the troops." Monty effused.

"You are in severe danger of upstaging my routine and stealing the limelight," came John's dry follow up remark.

"Yes well, you might know , John, that some of us have been thinking matters over very seriously while you have flaunted yourself in the press with your latest escapade outside the Home Office. Normally, I would take a very dim view of such proceedings and I would have taken you severely to task for it but……….."

"The forces of brutish ignorance are in danger of beating down our front door."

"I wouldn't put it that way but there comes the time when you have to be bold and say what needs saying."

With a raised eyebrow, the corners of the lips moved that significant small distance and the embodiment of ancient conservatism passed on to meet other enthusiastic supporters.

"I assume that Vera is still disapproving of your behaviour. No doubt she thinks I've led you astray."

"She'll get used to it, John. She has no choice," Retorted Monty with determination as he helped himself to another glass of wine. "I see another of the outlaws joining us."

"This is an unexpected treat, John. I suppose you knew nothing of this act of rebellion in advance."

"Believe it or not, Morag," Chuckled John. "I have been completely innocent of any intentions to stir up rebellion. I was fully expecting to hear the usual tedious speech that has been recycled down the years."

"John Deed, completely innocent," Morag murmured with a telling glance in his direction. "Try telling that to Sir Ian."

"I did. He didn't believe me."


	71. Chapter 71

Part Seventy One

On the Tuesday night, when she knew that John would be closeted at the Lord Mayor's dinner, Jo thought that she might as well take the plunge and go and see George. As much as she hated to admit it, John was on the verge of being right when he'd said that she did need to talk to George. Jo couldn't say that she really felt all that guilty for slapping George, but she did feel vaguely uncomfortable. Was it really like her to resort to violence? She didn't think so, but George had made her so blindingly irretrievably angry, that Jo knew that she could in that moment have done far more to George if necessary. But Jo also realised that things couldn't just be allowed to drift on as they were. She hadn't spoken to George since that day, and that was weeks ago now. They needed to talk, to straighten out what they did and didn't feel towards each other, for John's sake if nothing else.

When she drew up in front of George's house, she took a deep breath, trying to marshal her thoughts, unwilling to allow this situation to go on any longer. As she walked up the couple of steps to the front door, she heard the unmistakable sound of George singing. She was clearly listening to music, and joining in with the singer. Had it not been an icy cold November night, Jo would have waited until the end of the song before ringing the doorbell, but not even to listen to George's sweet, clear, happy tones could Jo stay out on a freezing doorstep. She hadn't been able to identify George's words, but as she drew nearer to the front door, Jo could hear that they were of love and growing tenderness, feelings that Jo hadn't felt for far too long. Tom had been good to her, she would never deny that, but she had always known that there was something missing with him, something that she now knew only resided in John, and to a lesser extent George. It gave Jo a slight twinge to hear George sounding quite so elated, so apparently content with life without her. When George opened the door, half expecting to see Connie, she stopped short when she saw it was Jo.

"Can I come in?" Jo asked quietly, seeing that her appearance had certainly surprised George. "We need to talk."

"Yes, of course," George replied, standing back and holding the door open, looking a little resigned that it wasn't who she had thought it would be.

When they went into the lounge, Jo saw that George had been otherwise occupied when she had arrived. The ironing board was standing between the piano and stereo, and George was clearly catching up on possibly the most tedious of household tasks.

"Would you like a coffee?" George offered, only just preventing herself from accidentally offering Jo something stronger. Agreeing that she would, Jo sat down in the big armchair next to the fireplace. There were logs crackling merrily in the grate and the room was warm and cosy. When George returned with their coffees, she sat down at her usual end of the sofa and they both out of habit lit up cigarettes.

"How are you?" Jo asked after taking a long drag.

"I'm fine," George told her honestly. "Almost swamped in work, seeing quite a lot of John and keeping Connie and my other clients out of the fire, nothing particularly out of the ordinary." She couldn't help thinking that she really ought to be struck down for telling such a whopper of a lie.

"You certainly look happy enough," Jo replied thoughtfully, unable to entirely ignore the feeling that George was hiding something from her, something huge.

"Have you seen John at all recently?" George asked after a while.

"Hasn't he told you?" Jo replied with a slight grimace.

"I haven't actually spoken to him since Saturday," George told her. "Why?"

"I went to see him on Saturday evening," Jo replied, not quite sure how to put the next bit. "To tell him that, well, to tell him that I am no longer engaged in an affair with Tom Campbell-Gore." George shrugged, having guessed as much.

"And is that why you've come back to John?" George asked, with more than a little resignation in her voice.

"No, certainly not," Jo replied in offended dignity. George gave a slightly bitter laugh on an exhalation of smoke.

"You needn't look like that," She said, stubbing her cigarette out in the ashtray, and getting up to continue with the ironing. "After all, when we were married, that's why John usually came back to me after one of his flings had ended."

"It's not entirely why I've come back," Jo said quietly, watching George's hand move the iron back and forth over one of John's shirts that had mysteriously found its way into her laundry basket. "I missed him," Jo continued, "And you."

"Am I seriously expected to believe that?" George scoffed, raising one eyebrow. "The part about you missing John is understandable, but I am at a loss to know what there was to miss about your being with me."

"Is sex all you think about?" Jo demanded icily.

"No, but I am not unlike John, in that making love is often how I express what I feel. You could say I learned that from him."

"You're going to really make me work for this, aren't you," Jo said in bitter realisation.

"That all depends on what you're really here for," George told her glibly, turning away to drape John's shirt over the back of a dining chair and to pick up another from the basket of ironing. "Because if you're honest with yourself, you will see that we can't possibly go back to what there supposedly was between us before."

Jo drank her coffee as she thought about this, knowing in her heart of hearts that George was right. Jo knew that in the beginning she had liked and definitely enjoyed what there was between she and George. When it was wrong, forbidden, something that only she and George knew about, it had been wonderful. Then, after they'd explained the situation to John, it was still good, for a number of months anyway. But then George's breast cancer and her own attempted overdose seemed to have ruined the happiness that she and George had undoubtedly felt with each other. Though, had George really felt happy? Jo could all too easily remember the night she had told John and George about her burgeoning affair with Tom. George had thrown the accusation at Jo that hers and George's sexual relationship had never been entirely equal. Jo hadn't wanted to think about this at the time, but on reflection she had been forced to admit the truth of the matter. Jo knew that she had always thoroughly enjoyed the things George had done for her, but she also knew that returning the oral part of their lovemaking had never remotely appealed to her. George had always told her that this didn't matter, but she had been sure that Jo would eventually want to try it, out of curiosity if nothing else. But never, not once had Jo ever wanted to do that to a woman. The thought of it simply didn't do anything for her. She hadn't ever particularly relished the thought of tasting a man's essence, and whilst she knew that tasting a woman's would undoubtedly be far less daunting, it definitely wasn't something she had ever wanted to try. Then Jo remembered the conversation she'd had with John just over a year ago now. They had been lying in bed, early one Saturday morning, and they had been talking about George and about how Jo sometimes thought that there was a substantial amount that George was keeping from her, when they were in bed. John, in his delightfully matter-of-fact way, had told Jo that George liked a few out of the way things that he was sure Jo definitely wouldn't be into, sexual things, some of which he had told her, and some of which he had rightfully kept to himself. Was that it then? Was it simply that she and George weren't sexually compatible?

Needing to put this realisation aside for a moment, Jo asked,

"What are we going to do about John?" Holding the iron suspended in mid air to answer, George said,

"That all depends on whether you can still find it in you to do what we have been doing, to love John with me, as well as on your own account."

"Does that mean you would still be prepared to be with us, together?"

"If you're asking would I still be prepared to make love to John at the same time as you," George replied, putting Jo's slightly hesitant explanation onto a far more basic footing to ensure no misunderstandings, she said, "If it's what John still wants, and I'm extremely sure that it is, then yes, without a single doubt. It isn't John's fault that you and I have fallen out of love. It isn't in fact, anyone's fault, it's just something that happened. I love John, more than I ever have, or ever will love anyone else, and if you and me together is what he still wants, then I will have absolutely no problem in giving him that." Watching Jo's changing facial expressions for a moment, she added, "And you need to make up your mind whether or not it is still something you can give him. What he doesn't need, is for you to attempt to make love to him alongside me, if you aren't absolutely comfortable with it, because he definitely will know. If you decide that this is something you can no longer do, and be assured, neither he nor I would think any less of you if you did, we would simply go back to how it was before you and I got together."

Feeling with George's assertion that she could now take the plunge to do what John had asked of her, Jo said into the resulting silence,

"I'm sorry, about what happened a few weeks ago."

"Jo, that argument was the worst you and I have had in a very long time. Things were said on both our parts that were definitely uncalled for."

"I know, but I shouldn't have slapped you, and I'm sorry for doing that."

"Thank you," George replied quietly. "That is appreciated, believe me." George said this because it needed saying, but she wasn't quite naïve enough to entirely believe that John hadn't demanded of Jo that she do this, before they could even think about going back to their former footing.

"And I'm sorry that I wasn't, well, good enough for you," Jo added, not quite able to meet George's deep, perceptive eyes. Feeling almost unbearably touched by Jo's slightly blushing apology, George put the iron down and walked over to her.

"Please don't apologise because it didn't work," George said quietly, laying a comforting hand on Jo's shoulder and giving it a squeeze. "You and I obviously want very different things out of a relationship with a woman. That's not your fault, and it's not mine, that's just how it is."

"Do you think you might find someone else?" Jo asked her, relieved at hearing George's explanation.

"I think it's very likely," George replied, not entirely meeting Jo's eyes. "And I certainly won't discard the possibility, but I very much doubt I will ever sleep with another man. John makes every other man seem, well, somehow very insignificant." As she said this, her thoughts briefly strayed to Ric Griffin, wondering if she really would refuse if she ever had the opportunity to sleep with him.

"Yes, John does spoil one for whatever any other man has to offer, doesn't he," Jo agreed with a rueful smile.

"And that is something we should never ever tell him," George told her with a wicked gleam in her eye, but inwardly acknowledging that John probably knew this already.


	72. Chapter 72

Part Seventy Two

The following day, John sat in his chambers, his copy of the Guardian spread across the sofa, shaking his head in disbelief and a broad smile of satisfaction spreading across his face. The experience of that uniquely memorable lord mayor's dinner was one thing but to read all about it in the papers made the experience more real, he had to admit to himself. It was highly irrational of him to believe that the media made first hand experience more real but that was one ailment of the twenty first century that not even he was immune to. Who would have believed it that he would come to read of such sturdy independence in the Guardian of all papers, that uneasy journalistic space inhabited by warring tribes of establishment supporting sycophants and old style crusaders for justice? With a cup of tea at his side, he feasted his eyes on the prominence of the article. It could not have been better timed if he had planned it.

"Judges in touch with ordinary lives, says lord chief justice Clare Dyer, legal editor

Wednesday **July 19 2006** The Guardian

"Judges may dress up in 18th-century wigs and wear knee breeches and tights on ceremonial occasions, but they are fully in touch with ordinary people's lives." the lord chief justice said last night.

"We do not live on rundown estates, but we do travel on buses and tubes and bicycles, we push trolleys around supermarkets, we have normal family concerns and commitments and neither are judges immune from the impact of crime, and day by day our work gives us an insight into what is happening in all sectors of society, which is shared by very few," added the head of the judiciary in England and Wales.

Speaking at the lord mayor's annual dinner for judges at Mansion House in London, the lord chief justice condemned recent media criticism of judges' sentencing decisions as "intemperate, offensive and unfair". The Lord Chancellor, who also spoke, said journalistic attacks on the recorder of Cardiff, who sentenced paedophile Craig Sweeney last month, had been delivered with "venom". He praised the judge, who imposed a life sentence with a five-year minimum jail term before Sweeney could apply for probation.

The Lord Chancellor said it was "obvious" that judges needed more discretion in sentencing. The concession was an about-turn for the government, whose sentencing laws have increasingly removed judges' discretion to suit the sentence to circumstances. Among those who attacked the judge last month was a junior minister in the Lord Chancellor's department, who was forced to apologise after saying that the judge had got it wrong. Neil Houghton, the home secretary, announced that he would ask the attorney general to refer the sentence to the appeal court, but was advised that it was correct within existing guidelines."

He left the article on the table with conspicuous understatement for anyone to read and he strolled languidly out of his door ready for the trial. He was in a noticeably perky mood when he took his rightful place on his throne. Perhaps the round of applause that greeted him was in his head but the events of the last few days made him believe that maybe it wasn't.

"Your brand of bolshevism is becoming fashionable," George drawled into his ear at John's flat where they were enjoying a cozy evening in together.

"You read about the lord mayor's annual dinner, I suppose." John enquired in languid tones.

"You are such a media tart, John. I suppose you were absolutely innocent and had nothing to do with it?"

"Would you believe me if I said that I was entirely innocent?"

"Quite frankly, no, but then again, your personal example is becoming contagious."

"And do you subscribe to my brand of Bolshevism?" teased John back.

"Well, you have to move with the times. I look at my wardrobe and survey the dresses hanging up and realize that they do not represent the George Channing that I have now become. Time and experience changes you and you have to be ruthless in outing what doesn't fit you any more. Do you understand what I'm saying?" George added in a lower tone of voice.

"Perfectly," John added with a smooth face. He knew George well enough that she would fight tooth and nail against the very idea of being John's pupil, both within their profession and outside it, as Jo had once done. That didn't stop her making her own moves very silently and in her own time and fashion. To really understand George, you had to learn to separate out the public artifice from the private very remarkable, warm hearted, complicated woman whom he had always known her to be.

"I can remember reading my copy of the Daily Telegraph and the Lord Chancellor's Department ensured that your more controversial judgments were regularly pilloried as the prime example of what was going wrong amongst the judges .You were the outcast amongst the brethren. I still read the Daily Telegraph if you must know," she concluded defiantly.

"It is the way of revolutions as I remember from my history studies. For years, people grumble and complain against oppression until the establishment takes that fatal step too far. Still, I must admit that I hardly thought that we would be flavour of the month after the 'Free John Deed' campaign met with such spectacular and public success. I expected at best a lot of polite nothings being dispensed in large measures mixed in with the occasional icy glare. Never in my wildest dreams would I expect my, I mean, our views to be publicly endorsed."

"You speak for yourself darling. You don't suppose that I will ever become frightfully earnest. That is completely against my beliefs."

"I was never quite sure just what your beliefs were," murmured John.

"I've always wanted to keep you guessing from the very beginning," retorted George smugly as she curled herself up against John. "Do you know, I can still remember the way you used to spout politics when I first met you? Some things don't change. Still, I could never accuse you of being a politics nerd as that would have been so unattractive. I suppose I let you pursue me because you were so utterly disreputable."

"Mmmn, keep piling on the compliments, George. You know how I like it this way," John said in his most melodious voice. In George's eyes, he looked so much like the cat that drunk the last drop of cream off the saucer and was licking his lips. She swatted him playfully with her copy of the Telegraph. He deserved it so much.

The soft lights cast a gentle warm glow on them both. It promised a perfect evening for them both. Everything was peaceful, relaxed and the light in George's eyes were at their most beguiling. He couldn't help noticing the way her short skirt was riding up her thighs thanks to the way she was sitting with her legs crossed. George's amused smile showed that she was highly aware of his attention.

Suddenly, John realised that the situation had abruptly changed for no particular reason. The atmosphere had turned chilly and cold and John was confused, bewildered. He didn't know how on earth he'd got into this situation but all he knew was that he wanted to get out of it. He felt helpless, trapped. How on earth had this come to be?

"You really didn't like Karen and I being together, John." George urged with controlled anger, her hands betraying her suppressed tension. John had a sense of looking down on the scene and, even from his distance, felt vividly how George just barely restrained herself from exploding with anger. For some reason, John couldn't for the life of him remember just how this row had started. This bewildered him as his sense of narrative events was acutely developed from being a barrister and then a judge.

"It seems inappropriate. You aren't the real George that I know," John heard himself say.

"It doesn't bother you that you've had a relationship both with me and with Karen though God knows why we ever bothered."

"It's different."

John saw that his mouth was set tight like a trap and was clearly nettled by George's last verbal thrust. Observing the scene, John saw what a ghastly mistake he had made. He seriously wondered just how obtuse and unfeeling he could be at times. He could seriously feel for the frustrated rage that George was bottling up inside herself.

"How?"

"I love you. Karen's different." Came his own smoother tones in his best style of reading romantic poetry.

"Meaning Karen doesn't love me or I love her, John?"

"She's only known you for five minutes in comparison with the three of us," came his reply in his loftiest and most magisterial tones. John felt that George was on the right lines in reining in her anger and maintaining an appearance of calm.

"You and I only knew each other for a short time before we fell in love. We were young then. You fell head over heels in love with Jo. So what's the difference?"

"You are taking the whole matter entirely out of its context of time. The love between the three of us is much deeper, more profound, more spiritual, born of long knowledge of each other."

As soon as he said these words, John could tell that he had maddened George. It sounded to his ears that his words were a smokescreen of words of which this was the first cloud wafting over. John was conscious that George stuck to short, terse sentences to get through that impenetrable suit of armour, which both protected and trapped him. It embarrassed John to see how inept, how unfeeling he could be for all his intelligence. It made John despair of himself.

"Come on, John, you feel threatened by us. Just once in your life just say what you feel."

"You make me sound like a jealous adolescent." The words were hurled in a contemptuous and disdainful fashion.

He'd given the game away, John's waking mind thought in a blinding flash of revelation as he could see the two of them as if on high. It was painfully obvious that his anger was directed at himself.

"The trouble with you, John, is that you suffer from intellectual pride." George began and stopped short. She saw a fleeting look in his eye that George had never noticed before." When you find yourself having done something wrong, you won't let yourself climb down."

John saw him turn abruptly away and agonised how, when push came to shove, he turned away rather than face himself. He was sure that he knew much better than that to acknowledge his humanity rather than just compartmentalise it in his pronouncements and judgments in court.

"You really don't see it. For God's sake, just open yourself up for once in your life," he heard the cry of sheer desperation. He wasn't sure just who was doing the shouting and who it was intended for.

Suddenly John was blinded by an insanely bright stream of light that poured down on him. He couldn't shut his eyes tight enough to stop the light dazzling him. Suddenly, he felt a light touch on his arm and a familiar warm, comforting voice from out of nowhere. It was his cue to let the light in. He could bear it this time as the illumination didn't hurt him, couldn't hurt him.

At that moment, John became aware of his surroundings. He was lying flat on his back, a disturbed duvet crumpled around them and he was sweating. The bedside light was switched on and the soft glow angled sideways at them, casting huge shadows. On the other side, George ran her fingers down his arm to comfort him. The bed contained them and the plain white high ceiling did its best to reassure him.

"It's all right George, I won't ever stand in your way," John mumbled incoherently. It was the last in a stream of confused conversation that John had been engaging with himself that had woken George up out of her sleep. She sought to turn him over in bed so she could hold him as his state of utter confusion alarmed her beyond all reason.

"For God's sake, there's nothing to worry about, John. No matter what I do, who I'm with, I'll always be here for you. I thought you understood that."

"I must have been talking in my nightmare," John mumbled, gradually piecing things together. "It wasn't as bad as it seemed. It was about the person I used to be, that's all. I know I'm past all that."

"Then everything's all right then," whispered George into John's ear as she held him closely. By the relaxed feel in his body, George knew that John was only too grateful for such solicitous care and not go all proud and heroic as he might have done once.


	73. Chapter 73

Part Seventy-ThreeA peculiar smile played on Helen's lips as she drove through the busy London traffic on the way to Cleland House. For a moment, she felt as if she was held suspended in a time warp. Was she still acting Larkhall Prison Governing Governor, was she working for the Home Office at work on one of her projects or was she simply herself? Well, in a curious way she was all three, coming to offer her expertise on all three identities. Still more ironic was the fact that, instead of her old adversary, Alison Warner, it was Neil Grayling who had extended the invitation. Helen relished the irony of the fact that she had come on the invitation of Area Management.She had been looking over the files on her home PC, doing a little tidying up work and nothing had been further from her mind about renewing acquaintances with the Home Office when the phone rang. "Helen Stewart here, what can I do for you?" she asked automatically.

" Neil Grayling here. As a matter of fact, you are uniquely placed to give me a considerable amount of help," came the slightly amused response in taking literally her standard greeting. He knew that it was in Helen's nature not to help herself in responding.

"Would I be right in saying that Nikki has told you that Sylvia Hollamby has been suspended from duty pending disciplinary proceedings?"

"Nikki knows where to draw the line in giving me confidential information," Helen said guardedly, not being quite sure how the land lay.

"Good. For that reason, I would be eternally grateful if you can come up to Cleland House and tell me what you've seen of Sylvia Hollamby's transgressions."

"But I thought…..,"interrupted Helen.

"I've heard direct from Nikki and Karen what went on. You know I have the highest respect for Nikki and she has told me of your experiences but I need first-hand evidence. You know how difficult it will be to unseat Sylvia so I need to get everything exactly right. You put yourself in my shoes. After all, if events had panned out differently, you might easily have been in my shoes."

That brought Helen up short. Grayling had connected with dormant instincts that she never knew she still had.

"They won't have a sign hung out like 'Helen Stewart keep out. Dangerous woman at large,' " Helen joked light-heartedly. Grayling was not deceived by her manner.

"I wouldn't be surprised if you never wanted to set foot in Area Office for the rest of your life but I'm the one extending the invitation. This is my decision and I'll ensure that you are properly treated as a visitor with a perfect right to be on the premises."

Helen caught her breath and decided fast.

"It only remains to sort out a convenient time and date for the both of us. I'll see personally to the arrangements for you to be shown the red carpet. Oh and also my room number," Grayling replied briskly, revealing an undertone of everlasting gratitude in his voice.

So it was that Helen found herself allocated a visitor's space in the car park and, with an impish smile on her lips, she swung through the doors and presented herself at the luxuriously wide reception area. As Grayling had promised, her presence was expected and catered for. She clipped a 'visitor's' badge to the lapel of her smart jacket and as she turned towards the lift, who but Alison Warner suddenly jumped into view out of nowhere. It was the horrified expression on the other woman's face that gave Helen the advantage.

"Good morning, Mrs Warner," Helen greeted the frozen faced woman with outstretched hand, an audible bounce in her voice. "What an unexpected surprise to see you after all this time."

"Believe me, the surprise is all mine. If you excuse me, I have important business to deal with." Just for once, her stiff tones expressed an element of truth.

"So have I. We'll have to catch up with each other another time as I'm only passing through."

Gleefully reading the question marks written all over her enemy's face, Helen let herself be zoomed upwards and she followed Grayling's precise directions to Grayling's room. One glance took in the slight differences in details between Grayling's room and the officially prescribed model, especially the very fetching painting and the genuine warmth of Grayling's greeting. Instantly, she felt at home here.

"It's really good of you to give your own time to help with a problem which some might say wasn't your concern except that I know that Nikki's concerns are yours and….."

"I have some unfinished business that chance has put our way," finished Helen with a warm smile, acknowledging the man's sensitivities before continuing in more determined tones. "I want to see this through to the end, wherever I fit in."

The smile on Grayling's face was radiant as this was exactly the reaction he wanted. A curious sensation overtook him as, technically, Helen had no standing within the prison service. In reality, he tuned in very much to everything this very strong-minded woman said and every nuance of her behaviour. He knew that this meeting was going to combine business with pleasure as he indicated to his PA that his morning cup of tea would be very welcome for them both. The strong sunlight shining in through his window and the clean clear shapes in his office felt symbolic.

"I'm breaking no confidences in telling you that I'm heading the investigation to consider whether Sylvia Hollamby should be dismissed from the prison service for gross professional misconduct," he finally said after they were both duly refreshed. "Nikki and Karen between them have done a fine job in building up the case over the years. The conclusion is a no brainer but the question is in ensuring that the evidence will stick. The real problem is how scheming and devious she is in playing the system. My gut instinct is never to rely on second hand information that can be turned around. This is where you come in."

"I'm only too happy to help but there's one question that came to my mind as I was driving over. She's always made out that she's got a hot line to the POA General Secretary and that she's such a strong trade unionist. Just how much of that is total crap and how much of that is substance?"

Grayling looked taken aback for a moment at Helen's incisive observation. He had never really asked himself that question before. This astute woman was dragging up from his subconscious the possibility that he'd tended to take Bodybag's bombast at face value.

"You look at it this way, Neil. She was thick as thieves as Fenner and the pair of them had this baleful hold on a lot of the younger POs who could be easily influenced. In the early days, Dominic really put himself on the line in standing up to the pair of them but he was the exception. It's only in recent years that she's become the odd one out or so Nikki tells me."

"So what's that to do with her being a POA rep?" Grayling asked. Helen's remarks were perfectly valid but he couldn't catch their drift.

"One reason is that I suspect that her base support has been trickling away. Another thing is that, in the old days, she and Fenner were in league with Stubberfield but now with Karen and Nikki on the scene, she's lost that support as well. A lot of her is sheer bluff and I'd lay money that the POA General Secretary won't be too displeased with losing her subs and everything that goes with it. I wouldn't underrate her cunning but I wouldn't let the image she projects throw you."

"That's a very good point Helen," Grayling said as he blessed his chance thought to double-check his information instead of wondering if he was going over the top in securing evidence. "So let's deal with the events you were most concerned with. I have a batting list which I'll run through unless you've any to add."

"Feel free to go ahead."

"My list is the Carol Byatt miscarriage, Shell Dockley being moved to the medical wing after stabbing Jim Fenner, and the full scale riot after Femi was beaten up by prison officers."

"You've definitely done your homework, Neil. Anyway, this is what happened…."

As Helen rattled away, telling her story concisely and clearly, Grayling scribbled away automatically until he raised his head and asked the key question.

"So you had direct confirmation from Carol Byatt herself that she'd complained of bleeding and didn't feel well and Sylvia Hollamby lied through her teeth. You did as any correct wing governor might have done, giving an experienced prison officer the benefit of the doubt," Grayling observed.

"Hardly that," winced Helen at the memory. "I strongly suspected her of lying while not having hard facts. I didn't know how untrustworthy she was- and I ran head on into trouble when Nikki and the Julies backed her up. By then, it was too late."

When Helen had recounted the relevant part of the Shell Dockley incident, it prompted more questions. Nikki's account had been fragmented, corresponding with her state of depression at the time while Karen's account was lucid but a feeling in his bones told him it was incomplete.

"I understand that Karen decided quite rightly to send Shell Dockley down the block pending the police investigation into criminal charges and your internal enquiry. I take it you weren't involved in making that decision," Grayling said crisply. It was less of a question than a concise summary of the facts.

"It was out of my hands. I was instructed by Area Management to head the enquiry into how the assault on Fenner took place in terms of whether there was a lapse of security and if so, how much. ……. It seems strange that I can remember talking about it to Alison Warner in this very building. It feels as if it only took place yesterday."

Grayling grinned at the distracted look that spread across Helen's face as she finished speaking. He guessed what was going through Helen's mind.

"I was just thinking that you don't feel as if you are an Area Management official. You seem too nice, too human too…." She added.

"Unthreatening?" Grayling said in gentle tones. "Perhaps you've still got a tinge of angst about those set in authority and judgment over you who are unreasoningly coldly authoritarian and don't give you the credit you've earned."

"Got it in one- and I'm supposed to be the psychologist," confessed Helen. "There's one general point I want to make before I start."

"Go ahead."

"I can see that the lines of responsibility for lifers was open to confusion between my lifer's group welfare responsibilities and Karen with her day to day disciplinary responsibilities. That showed up when both of us were trying to get Fenner out of Dockley's cell and we were pulling in different directions. We were lucky that we had a reasonable working relationship. It could have been worse."

"I know how conscientious both you and Karen are but you're missing the point. Somehow Dr Nicholson got to authorize Shell Dockley's move to the medical wing for the mentally ill so the question is how come her file landed on his desk, by carrier pigeon? I don't know and neither does Karen, as it was a fait accompli. As a working hypothesis, I'd say that Sylvia Hollamby was responsible. I can feel her fingerprints on it. You and I know how vindictive she is and I quite believe she popped over periodically to gloat. It is entirely like her to do that. At this point, I'm stuck."

"The facts I'm directly aware of are as follows. I interviewed Shell Dockley to get to the truth of how come she stabbed Fenner. I sat in on the PO meeting a few days later and had a run in with Sylvia over Mr. Stubberfield mooting the idea of transferring Shell Dockley to Ashmore. My attention went off her while I was conducting the investigation. The next I heard was that she'd been assaulted in the showers and I found out from Karen that she'd been moved to the medical wing without her knowledge. I questioned Shell again and got to the truth about her stabbing Fenner upon which she was returned to G wing," Helen replied in crisp precise tones

"So the picture is still incomplete. This doesn't take us any further," Grayling said softly before both of them fell silent as they racked her brains for a lead into this conundrum.

"If anyone would know what actually happened to Shell it would be Tessa Spall," Helen continued, dragging yet another snippet from her large memory vault. "Why don't you ask Karen to talk to Tessa, though how well this will go down with Karen is anyone's guess? They've had a fraught history, as she once held Karen hostage using a syringe of her blood as a weapon."

Grayling fell silent and didn't answer immediately as he turned this over in his mind. Helen had come up with a blinder of an idea but he'd heard of that incident and foresaw immediately that it landed him with a delicate problem in broaching this to Karen.

"You've given me a lot of food for thought Helen. Let me think that one over and, before you suggest it, it is down to me to talk to Karen about this if I go ahead with your suggestion."

A half-smile spread across Helen's face. She had guessed rightly at this man's conscientious nature. The stray thought also crossed her mind that Karen was much more fortunate than she ever was to have such a caring man to support her.

"Finally, there comes the riot. Nikki has given me a really excellent account of her typical jackbooted approach in handling the situation but I need your first hand account of her behaviour from start to finish as you saw it."

"I was called in far too late when events had kicked off. I wasn't exactly blameless in the matter as I was slow on the uptake in properly engaging with Nikki," started Helen in hesitant, embarrassed tones.

"Helen, both of you were placed in an exceptionally difficult situation with divided loyalties. Nikki, believe it or not, had no official status then," Grayling said dryly.

"All right then, I stand forgiven," laughed Helen as she recalled the events of that evening. Her mood steadily darkened as she relived the memories as if she could see them before her very eyes. "What Nikki didn't see at the time though she's since heard about Sylvia Hollamby's jiggery pokery. Sylvia was continually pressurizing me to go in hard, that I was caving in, that I was sending out the wrong message and that I hadn't got much of a strategy despite my assurance that I'd got Area authority for a strategy of containment. She was making a blatant appeal to the others to undermine my authority as much as she ever had done. She was continually blaming Nikki for everything that had happened, conveniently forgetting that she'd mishandled the situation from the very start. That was one of the very worst nights of my life and I know it was the same for Nikki."

Grayling's heart went out to this warm-hearted woman. He could feel for her conflicts.

"I'm really sorry for making you relive painful memories."

"It's something I had to do. If I hadn't gone back in time, I couldn't have done justice to your questions. Let's face it, it makes a change these days to be on the receiving end of probing questions. I'm normally the one dishing them out."

Grayling couldn't help admiring the way that fast shifting moods played on this woman's expressive features as if on a mountain lake. No wonder why she and Nikki were lovers, Grayling reflected in a sentimental mood.

Later, as she sipped another cup of tea in the friendliness of Grayling's room, Helen couldn't help reflecting that she really had gone back in time and, while those days were the making of her, she was more than glad to be where she was right now in her life.


	74. Chapter 74

**Part Seventy-Four**

The circle of friendship around Helen and Nikki had that nicely random feel about it. They all went about their daily lives knowing that sooner or later, events would throw them together again. Alternatively, the idea suddenly jumped into Yvonne's mind for a get together and each was left wondering why she hadn't thought of the idea before. Once again, phone calls were exchanged and Karen made the deliberate effort to detach herself from her all embracing responsibilities as Larkhall Prison's governing governor to go round to Yvonne's for dinner along with the rest of the girls, Cassie Roisin, Nikki, Helen, Barbara and Lauren.

Cassie and Roisin were in most problematically placed as Michael was now approaching sixteen and Niamh was approaching thirteen. At one time, both children clung closely to both women after the fault in their family life was healed when Cassie came into their lives. Both women had seen the children as, well children. Times were slowly moving on and they could sense their children start to find their feet in seeking their own identities amongst their peers even as much as they sometimes wanted their mums, well at least when nobody was looking on.

"You will be good, Michael. Don't spend all night playing computer games," called out Roisin nervously in a way that Cassie could feel resonate through her, let alone Michael.

"Mum, don't fuss so," complained Michael loudly, trying to sound tough and cool and not succeeding as much as he had liked. "Everyone else's parents just lets us get on with our lives."

"Yeah, Michael. I've heard that one before. Other parents are cool and we're not," came Cassie's snappy rejoinder which made the lad wish he could master that quickfire gag routine. She was smarter than all his friends put together.

"OK, OK. Just let me get ready. My friends are waiting," he said with downcast eyes, letting Roisin pack a spare set of underwear and a toothbrush.

"I'm tired," Niamh said, her angelic eyes cast upwards at Roisin in a way that made Michael jealous. She could get away with murder with that sweet smile of hers."I've got my mobile packed, just to make sure things are all right. Jenny and I aren't planning on stopping up late. Her parents are very strict."

While Roisin beamed at the little girl, Cassie concealed her own smile as she finished applying her lipstick. She was reflecting on the fact that she'd come out at twelve at least to herself and her 'friends' parents had been blissfully unaware that 'sleepovers' provided her such marvellous opportunities. She made a mental note to tell Roisin of that when they were out in the car. She was dying to see the comedy of that residue of Catholic guilt briefly reappear before her partner burst out laughing at herself. Finally, they were smartly dressed and ready to head off to Yvonne's house. Being out on their own gave them an interesting feeling of freedom to enjoy themselves as, after all, they had earned it.

Pretty soon, their car crunched to a halt on the gravel outside the familiar house and another world reopened up in front of them as Yvonne opened the front door. They instantly felt glowing all over as they stepped into Yvonne's luxurious but familiarly comfortable surroundings and all their friends were waiting for them. They had been the last to arrive and they were immediately the centre of attention.

"It's great to see you both," Helen said, eyes glowing and a beaming smile on her face. "This get together would have been incomplete without you."

Both women flowered inside at the way they were received and they cast aside their parent mode of thinking. Much though they loved their children, it felt marvellous for this one time to enjoy their freedom and feel comfortable about it. They stood with a glass of wine in each hand and nibbling buffet food. Everyone fortunately was as they remembered them being the last time they met. After general inconsequential chitchat that felt like bubbles in champagne, the conversation took a definite turn which Cassie and Roisin did their best to take an interest in. This was, after all, a long way from their lives but curiously welcome for all that.

"So come on,"Yvonne said, a grin in her voice and a glass of wine poised in her hand. "If you and Helen are so bleeding militant, why weren't you on the judge's demomstration? Lauren and I were looking out for you in the crowd and were you there? Were you heck as like."

"It might surprise you to know that we weren't invited," Nikki retorted with a peculiar smile on her face and a droll expression in her voice. "Otherwise, we'd have been where the action is. If you must know, Helen and I were sound asleep in bed when it all kicked off. We turned on the TV while we had a cup of coffee before setting off for work. Imagine our joyous surprise in seeing everyone's favourite judge resolutely defending our freedoms on prime time TV."

"I bet you got it taped, the programme I mean," joked Yvonne in return.

"But of course,"Helen said with smooth aplomb. "I only missed the first few seconds."

"Hey wait a minute, I'm lost ," Cassie protested with a puzzled look on her face. "Roisin and I are two working mums and get rubbish teenage programmes to watch till Michael and Niamh get to bed. Just explain it all in words of one syllable for us."

Nikki exchanged glances with Yvonne who raised the palms of her hands as a signal to the dark haired woman to take the floor.

"Besides what the papers and the TV said, we got to cross-examine the judge later on to fill in the gaps. Within limits, he was most forthcoming."

"I bet he was," grinned Yvonne. "He's not backward in speaking his mind."

"I happened to watch the news and read the papers," put in Barbara. "I thought he was perfectly splendid and he struck a notable blow for liberty."

Nikki smiled affectionately at the way her friend responded. Her particular brand of Christianity was quiet and open minded but it made her very ready to stand up against injustice as all of them knew very well.

"There was personal stuff that he didn't want to blab about. The long and the short of it was that his enemies had found out about one of his personal indiscretions which they were going to use against him to get him removed. Apparently, it takes both Houses of Parliament to impeach him but at the back of this, the government wanted him out of the way as they have a secret agenda of juryless trials, mandatory sentencing so that judges end up rubber stamping what the Home Office tell them to do. Despite the fact that the other judges sometimes despair of John's waywardness..." Nikki continued in rapid tones.

"I'm absolutely sure whatever it was, it's wouldn't be a moral problem. Of course, gone are my days of Catholic guilt burying me and everyone else close to me,"Roisin declared in ringing tones to which Cassie smiled appreciatively in response. That enabled Yvonne to successfully conceal her smirk as she remembered very well just what John's waywardness was like and figured out that the woman concerned must have been bloody lucky. To her particular form of morals, the only problem was the trouble the guy had landed himself in.

"...they figured out that if the judge went down, they would be at the mercy of the Home Office. Another reason that swung them behind the judge is that they have got to respect the judge's farsightedness."

"He must be a total pain in the arse to the government. A good thing too," Cassie said brightly, the necessity of moderating her language in front of children being temporarily removed.

"So what happened next? Let's move the story along a bit. In any case, Bible study isn't my strong point. Now you've got my interest, let's cut all that stuff out and get to the action," interjected Lauren pointedly.

"From what I gather, the strike was planned like a military operation. They were up at the crack of dawn in full regalia and they staked out all the major courts and the courts came to a grinding halt. George drove the judges first thing in the morning, sternly lecturing them on their deportment, and not to disgrace themselves....."

"That's such a front," exclaimed the sharp-eyed Yvonne to knowing smiles. They knew George better than to go on surface impressions. "She was with them all the way only it's George being George."

"He even got the political left to join them on the demonstration to do some chanting and shouting in support. The judge stopped the coppers giving them trouble by saying that they were, I quote, ' free spirited English people welcome to celebrate with us the traditional freedoms, which are under threat from the government.' By all accounts The judge gave the Home Secretary a good ear-bending laughed in his face ."

"Whew," Barbara broke in expressively. Her lively imagination was trying to imagine the judge letting his emotions flow in the presence of his enemy.

"Next thing, the press arrived and the judge had to come up with short, snappy answers for the Great British Public same as some of us have done. After Nikki and I reran the videotape a few times, we reckon the judge covered all his bases pretty well in distinguishing between those who are well disposed on the one hand and the right wing tabloid hacks on the other,"Helen explained, taking up the thread of the story.

"So by all accounts, it was an outrageous success,"Roisin put in, beaming all over her face.

"You ain't kidding," Yvonne said considerately, shaking her head in appreciation. "It sounds like he didn't take any prisoners."

"Except that we got left out left out of all the fun,"Nikki almost wailed as retelling the story made it all the more vivid. It brought back a wave of warm emotions and the sheer concentrated spirit of who she was. "I would really have loved to be amongst the crowd, shouting and chanting. You know how good I can be at that sort of thing," Nikki added, looking soulfully at her partner.

Helen exchanged glances at her partner and, while Nikki's protests had left her in the crossfire at the time, she squeezed her hand affectionately.

"Never mind regretting what could have been. You have a lifetime ahead of you,"Karen commanded with her natural exuberance and force of personality. Up till now, she'd drunk in the atmosphere of the biting cold and brilliant blue sky of the dawning of revolution, as narrated by her friends.

"You tell us about Sylvia Hollamby's project for an alternative career pattern, if anyone will have her. Go on,"Helen coaxed, "it's either your story or Karen's."

"Do you really want me to drag work matters into this pleasant gathering?" Karen muttered, the joy on her face clouding over. "At moments like these, I want to forget it."

"This is different," interjected Cassie. "All of us here have suffered at her hands. We've all been around Larkhall at some time or another and we've all come up against that bigot."

Nikki stepped in without any sense of pleasure in taking responsibility. She knew that Cassie was perfectly correct and that the job had to be done so it might as well be her as anyone. "All right, it comes down to me then. Connie Beauchamp miscarried after getting involved in a fight with one of our worst prisoners, Natalie Buxton, a tougher version of Shell Dockley," explained Nikki patiently, looking round at everyone.

"It was one of those situations where those who could have put a stop to the situation weren't in the right place and the one prison officer who was around was that woman. Gina and I intervened when it was all too late and Connie ended up being taken to hospital,"

"Are you sure she wasn't just being incompitent and she wasn't deliberate? She's hardly Superwoman." Roisin asked sharply.

"I had a long think about it afterwards, debating that very point," Nikki said at last. "From what I saw, it was deliberate and there are enough reliable witnesses who saw the whole thing. That woman was grinning all over her face enjoying every bit of what was going on while pretending to try to call Buxton was too much for her, she could have phoned for backup."

"That's a dead giveaway," pronounced Lauren flatly, being momentarily slow in taking in the tragedy..

"Poor Connie," Roisin sympathised warmly . "How is she after that terrible incident?"

"She's out on bail thank God but she's awaiting trial. You know what that means. I suppose that is a step up for her. At least she's with those who care for her," pronounced Karen

"This brings us back to making sure that Bodybag is nailed for good and all. For all her stupidity, she's had a lifetime's experience of low cunning and she knows how to play the system," concluded Nikki tersely..

There was a long pause. There wasn't much that could be added to what had been said already.

"I had a long chat with Neil Grayling at Area just the other day," Helen finally said in an elaborately casual tone of voice. This revelation totally astonished the other women. If there was one thing that she'd made clear over the years, it was that she'd never revisit her past like this.

"At Area? You mean you just strolled into Cleland House?" exclaimed Karen, not believing her ears.

"I really enjoyed watching Mrs Warner squirm when I bumped into her. That was payback time," grinned Helen before she resumed talking in a more serious vein. "Neil and I went over the evidence together and found the exercise very useful. I thought I'd give you prior warning that he will suggest you talk to Tessa Spall as she is likely to know just what dirty tricks Sylvia got up to in order to get Shell Dockley transferred to the muppet wing."

Karen turned white in the face. She didn't need to recall the evil memories of that woman who was as treacherous as anyone. She was the most plausible person imaginable amongst the many contendors for that doubtful crown.

"If you really want to make sure of getting Sylvia out of your hair, then this is the one incident in her spotted career that we're short of hard information. You never know what you'll find unless you start trying." Helen pronounced.

These words hit a nerve in Karen's head like a resounding tuning fork. She looked around each and every friend of hers and knew that in their different ways, they had lived up to that proverb. In the great scheme of things, was it too much to ask of her to do this? She reached eagerly for another glass of wine, feeling her friends surround her and not her work.


	75. Chapter 75

Part Seventy Five

As Connie drove towards Ric's flat on the Saturday evening, she reflected that it really was time if not long passed the time when she should have sorted things out with Ric. It after all wasn't his fault that she had chosen not to tell him that she had been pregnant with his child, nor was it his fault that she had tried to push him away after the miscarriage and her release from prison. Ric had done everything within his power to make her feel supported and cared for, and all she had really done was to throw it back in his face. Connie knew precisely why she had behaved in this way, but that didn't make it any less reprehensible. She didn't know how to deal with anyone caring about her, she knew that, because it made her feel vulnerable, unsafe, as though in having lulled her into a false sense of security, the person doing the caring for her would then suddenly remove their support when it was most being relied upon.

The rain was torrential when she arrived outside Ric's flat, the icy needles almost stinging her through the jacket and silk shirt she was wearing as she locked the car door and rang his bell.

"Connie," He said when he opened the door, looking moderately surprised to see her.

"Can I come in?" She asked, "Its freezing."

"Sure," he replied, taking in her slightly bedraggled appearance, and wondering as she followed him up the stairs, precisely what had finally made her decide to seek him out. When they were in his flat with the door shut, he took her jacket from her and hung it over the back of a chair.

"Wine, coffee or scotch?" He asked, moving towards the kitchen as she took a seat on the sofa.

"Scotch please," Connie replied quietly. "I think I need the Dutch courage." Handing her a large measure a few minutes later, Ric sat down beside her and said,

"The Dutch courage really isn't necessary, you know."

"Oh believe me, it is," Connie told him with utter certainty. Then, after taking a large swallow, she looked him straight in the eye and said, "I'm sorry."

"You didn't need scotch to say that," Ric told her quietly, removing the glass from her hand and putting it down on the coffee table, taking her hands in his and gently stroking them. "Four weeks ago, when we had that somewhat fraught exchange of words, everything was still extremely raw, for both of us. I wanted to lash out at you, verbally if not physically, and you unfortunately gave me the opportunity. I've had time since then to think better of some of the things I said, as I suspect have you."

"But you were right," Connie insisted, hearing the tears in her voice and feeling them brimming behind her eyes. "I should have told you I was pregnant, and I shouldn't have tried to push you away once I got out of prison."

"No, you shouldn't have done either of those things in the way that you did," He agreed with her. "But I think I understand why you did."

"Ric, you have nine children already. I honestly didn't know whether or not you would want a tenth, and perhaps more importantly at the time, I didn't know whether or not I wanted to keep it. As much as I know that I certainly didn't kill my patient, I still don't know whether I will be convicted in January, which is perhaps the most pressing reason of all as to why a child was the last thing either of us needed."

There was a few moments' silence between them, Ric still holding her hands gently in his.

"And the day we had that argument," Connie continued eventually. "Trying to seduce you was probably the worst thing I could have done in the circumstances."

"Someone managed to knock some sense into me about that," Ric told her with a slight smile. "They suggested that sex is your preferred form of communication, because words often make you far too vulnerable." This wasn't directly what George had said that evening at Karen's, but Ric knew that it was what she had meant. Connie flinched.

"It appears as though Ms Channing is getting to know me far too well," She said with a self-deprecating shrug. "Scarily well in fact."

"She cares about you," Ric said succinctly, getting up to retrieve the accoutrements of a joint.

"I know she does," Connie agreed with a soft smile.

"Do you want one?" Ric asked, gesturing to the joint he was rolling.

"A couple of drags of yours will do me," Connie told him. "It's quite some time since I had any." After lighting the joint and taking a deep drag, Ric sat back down beside her and put his right arm around her.

"I've missed this," He said, offering her the joint.

"You're surely not going to tell me that you've been entirely without company in the last month, are you?" Connie teased before taking a tentative drag of her own. Ric laughed.

"There would obviously be little point in my doing so. The night you were otherwise engaged with the judge, after his day in your shadow and no doubt under your thumb, Karen helped me to resurrect a few old memories, that's all."

"George said that she was vaguely tempted to stay with you and Karen that night."

"She was really quite mixed up. Apparently she and Jo had a pretty bad row earlier that week, which ended in Jo slapping her, not something that I think had ever happened before." Connie was briefly astounded by the force of the rage that suddenly rose up in her, coupled with a surge of protectiveness that made her want to keep George safe for the rest of her life. "Put the hackles down," Ric told her quietly, "Because one thing you can't be seen to do is to in any way threaten your trial judge." Forcing herself to snap out of it, Connie realised just how much she had given away by her facial expression.

"Sorry," She said, taking another drag of the joint and handing it back to Ric.

"Care to tell me what provoked that reaction?" Ric asked carefully, suspecting that he might just know what was coming.

"I slept with George, last weekend," Connie replied, unable to prevent a soft smile touching her lips.

"And?" Ric asked, delighting in seeing just how happy Connie clearly was about this.

"And it was wonderful, incredible, the most intense feeling I've had, well, ever. It might sound a little odd, but I actually feel very privileged to be getting to know her in that way." Ric felt the power of her statement, hoping that George took as much care with Connie's feelings as Connie was clearly doing with hers.

"That's two of you now who've tried to tell me just how incredible she is to sleep with," he said, a quirky smile turning up the corners of his mouth. "It makes me wonder what I'm missing." Connie laughed, realising that the other person must have been Karen.

"Then come to bed with me," She said, leaning her face close to his. "And I might just tell you about it." Having stubbed the joint out in the ashtray, Ric looked at her a little apprehensively.

"I wasn't sure that you would still want to sleep with me."

"Hey," Connie said, immediately putting her arms around him. "Just because I may have started something with George, that has absolutely no bearing on what you and I have had, and what I hope we can still have. I might have immensely enjoyed what happened with George, but it was very much one-sided, because I committed the immortal sin of falling asleep after the most fulfilling orgasm I'd had in a long time, before I could return the favour." As close as she was to Ric, Connie saw the slight twitch of his facial muscles as he struggled not to laugh. "Yes, I know, utterly unforgiveable. But I'd had a hard day in theatre doing a heart and lung transplant, and then George cooked me the most amazing dinner, after which she played the piano exquisitely for me. Making love and then falling asleep with her was the perfect end to a perfect evening."

"How could anyone compete with that?" Ric asked with a broad smile.

"The point is," Connie told him, turning serious again. "Is that just because I did enjoy that evening with George and even though I think we have the potential to explore something a lot deeper than the odd evening here and there, what I have with George, and what I may have with George in the future, does not in any way mean that I want to end the friendship, relationship, whatever you want to call it, that I have with you. So you don't need to feel quite so insecure, I promise." When she kissed him, Ric held her closely to him, feeling almost as though he had returned to his drug of choice after a period of abstinence. When they automatically began to move towards the bed, both following their familiar pattern of removing one another's clothes, Ric said,

"Are you sure this is what you want?"

"Yes, I do want this," She replied, "Because you aren't the only one who has missed it, believe me."

But when they were cuddled close under the duvet, Connie suddenly thought of something.

"There is something we need to discuss before we take this any further."

"Oh?" Ric enquired, his hands running lingeringly over her soft warm body.

"I'm not on the pill any more."

"Okay," Ric replied, sitting up to rummage through the top drawer of the chest of drawers next to his bed. "Will one of these do?" He asked, holding up a packet of condoms.

"Yes, as long as you don't mind," She said as he lay back down.

"If it means that I can be inside you again," He said with a gleam of hunger in his eyes, "Then I don't mind in the least."

"Now that's something I've definitely missed," she said, wrapping a questing hand around his hardening cock, "Feeling almost full to capacity." Ric laughed.

"Karen said something very similar three weeks ago."

"Well, there you are then. She and I obviously know what we're talking about. Oh, and, I won't be taking the pill any more, because I'm getting sterilised, a week on Monday."

"Are you sure that's what you want to do?" he asked her carefully.

"I'm not sure that it's what I want to do, but I know that it's what I must do. I will never make a good mother, Ric, and it's about time I came to terms with that."

"I'm sorry," Ric said, part of him feeling inexplicably guilty. "If this pregnancy has prompted this decision."

"Yes, it might have brought the idea forward a few years, but I'd have probably done it eventually," Connie tried to reassure him. "Anyway, try not to think about that now." She ran her hands over his back, slipping a thigh between his to rub up against him. As he reacquainted himself with her silky soft skin, he reminded her of her promise of earlier.

"You said," He cajoled between kisses, "That if I came to bed with you, you would tell me about George."

"You're surely not expressing an interest in her yourself, are you?" She asked him mockingly, running the tip of her fingernail down the centre of his chest.

"mm, perhaps," He admitted a little sheepishly. "You can hardly blame me, now can you."

"No, certainly not," She groaned lasciviously as he kissed his way down to suckle on her left nipple. "But please don't ask me to make comparisons," She said, her voice quavering at the tender feel of his lips and tongue on her sensitive flesh. "Because they really are impossible to make." Looking up for a moment, he said,

"Is that because everything George did was so much better it was in a different league altogether?"

"No," Connie insisted vehemently. "Everything I felt with George was precisely that, very, no extremely, different. Not better, just different."

"Good," He replied, resuming his former occupation, laying his claim on Connie's body by giving her all the usual avenues of pleasure that he knew she had always enjoyed with him.

When he slid gently inside her, she knew that she definitely had missed the familiarity of him. Even with the thin latex barrier between them, their obvious affection for each other was there, shining between them with far more tenderness than there had been before her incarceration. The return to the central act of their lovemaking seemed to finally release Connie's emotional turmoil, that had been building up ever since her miscarriage and release from prison.

"I'm so sorry," She said as they sped towards their combined orgasm, the tears now raining freely down her cheeks.

"Don't be sorry, not any more," He said, his own feelings reaching their peak as hers did. "It's over now. No more blame, no more guilt, not about this."

"I didn't want to hurt you," She said, cresting the waves of her orgasm and internally squeezing him to his.

"I love you," He said, the words involuntarily torn from him just as his seed was, though if he'd had time to think about it, Ric knew that he would have preferred to keep that particular sentiment to himself.

When he returned to bed after disposing of the condom, he cuddled her close to him, trying to soothe away her still quietly flowing tears.

"I wish I could…" She said, unable to finish her sentence though this wasn't necessary.

"Don't wish for something that might never happen," He told her gently, kissing away her tears. "I do love you. I wonder why at times, but I do, but that doesn't mean I expect you to feel anything remotely similar. I honestly think that if you ever end up feeling that way about anyone, it won't be for me, if it ever happens at all."

"Sometimes I think I'm incapable of loving anyone," She told him miserably.

"You will, when you find someone worthy of it," He replied philosophically. When she had calmed down a little and her tears had somewhat dried, she said,

"I've got something for you. It's the scan picture that Larkhall's doctor took for me at twelve weeks. I thought you might like it. I mean, if you don't, that's all right, I just…"

"Thank you," He interrupted her nervous rambling, feeling almost unbearably touched by her having kept this one piece of evidence that his daughter, their daughter had existed. As they cuddled even closer, snuggling together in his tiny but cosy flat with the wind howling and the rain pouring outside, Ric knew that he did love Connie, and that if she never returned such a level of feeling, that even if she put such a name to the feelings she may eventually have for George, he would still love her, still want her, and still do everything in his power to take care of her.


	76. Chapter 76

Part Seventy Six

As soon as Karen returned to work, a feeling of impending doom hung over her head. She knew very well that, even if Grayling hadn't deliberately primed Helen about her seeing Tessa Spall, that he would know that Helen would do it off her own bat. The sight of the phone in her office started to make her feel jumpy, as if it were an unexploded bomb with a time fuse ticking relentlessly away. Logically, she knew that everything Helen had said made solid common sense and consequently she should take the initiative, seize the psychological advantage within herself and phone him up. Emotionally, she shrank from doing so and would rather pretend that the forthcoming phone call wouldn't happen. The trouble is that every minute the phone remained silent only wound her up more and more. It was almost a relief when Friday dawned though the call could still come five minutes before leaving for home. She knew that fate could play perverse tricks like this.

Suddenly, the phone burst into life with an insanely jangling sound and Karen grabbed at the phone, fumbling with it.

"Karen Betts here," she gabbled at express train speed only to hear a familiar easy going female voice. The tension rushed out of her system with the speed of an express train.

"It's only Nikki, relax, take it easy," called her favourite wing governor from the other end of the line. "I'm ploughing through the wing budget and I'm stuck on a particular point. You're the expert on things like that so I was wondering if I could pick your brains."

"By all means. Bring the file along as I need to see it rather than talk about it on the phone. Your company is always welcome."

"Be right over," came the reply and the other woman signed off.

Soon enough, there came the polite knock at the door and in came Nikki with the folder under her arm. Karen had cleared her table and placed a chair opposite her so she waved Nikki to a seat.

"I'm definitely in the mood to tackle some nice abstruse budgeting query. Working through the mathematics can be strangely therapeutic," Karen opined while Nikki maintained her straightfaced expression.

"The trouble with budgets is that once I've sweated my way through one year's budget, it's almost as if I want to drive that painfully acquired knowledge out of my mind. I'm struggling when I'm hit by it next time around. I used to leave all that stuff to Trisha when we ran Chix," Nikki replied with a rueful expression on her face. It was a genuine expression of her feelings even though it worked to her advantage.

"OK, pass them over together with all your workings out," replied Karen confidently enough. Already the patterns of figures and categories started to slide together into formation as Nikki led her through her calculations. In very quick order, she had spotted where Nikki had 'double counted' without knowing it and this was quite enough to throw the calculations out of gear.

"Oh shit. I see it all now," Nikki exclaimed ruefully as everything was made so obvious to her. "Excuse me while I make a few notes so I don't forget between now and when I get back to my office."

"No problems, Nikki. Is there anything else I can help you out with?" Karen asked in her most expansive tones. Immediately, she saw the tripwire that lay at her feet as the expression on Nikki's face changed imprceptibly.

"As it happens, I think I can return your favour. I wanted to talk about the idea that Helen floated to you, of seeing Tessa Spall to find out what really happened to Shell Dockley while she was on the psychiatric wing."

"Don't even go there Nikki," Karen answered rapidly, her face turning white with shock.

"It was seven years ago since you had that run in with Tessa Spall," began Nikki, instantly aware that she had instantly fallen flat on her face in her attempt at discreet understatement.

"That's one way of describing it," Karen described it shakily. "I don't even want to think about what might have happened to me if she'd got me past the gatehouse. Having a syringe of blood held to my neck by a demented woman isn't so easily forgotten."

"Nor is having a verbal run in with her while I was tending the garden, having my ankle kicked from behind, me jumping on her back and half strangling her. Not in your league but something to remember her by," retorted Nikki drily, in tones that only she as a subordinate wing governor could get away with. Then again, Nikki was Nikki.

"I'd forgotten all that,"Karen answered in vague tones. Shrewdly, Nikki has exposed Karen's self-justification into the broad daylight from the depths of her darkest fears.

"Look here, you and I know that we can't leave anything alone that might make sure of nailing Sylvia," Nikki continued in easy soothing tones. "The fact that there's bugger all on record during that period makes me think there's something worth investigating. It's seven years ago and even Tessa Spall has only so much capacity for storing up and retaining her hatreds. She might have found new targets for her venom. She might well have changed since then. What say you check with the medical wing and see how the land lies as to her present state of mind? If you feel like going to see her, it's not as if some pillock has thought she was Barbara Mills, the very same pillock we want to put the skids under."

The calm words had their effect. Karen lay back in her chair, taking great lungfuls of air as she strove to deal with the aftershocks of Nikki's suggestion. She started to reason to herself that Nikki might have been acting very kindly in confronting her with her worst nightmare rather than carry on watching and waiting for the expected telephone call. Time had already crawled on agonisingly slowly and wasn't doing her any good.

"All right, you crafty sod. Did anyone tell you that your 'butter wouldn't melt in your mouth' expression on your face really needs watching. I shall consider carefully what you said but do not under any circumstances consider that I'm agreeing to your suggestion. I'm only mulling the idea over to consider the possibilities without freaking out at the thought."

"Yes Miss," said Nikki submissive tone of voice slightly amused Karen even at a moment like this.

"I suppose you have done me a favour in a way in preparing the ground for Neil to phone. He has the capacity for selling ice cream to Eskimoes so I suppose I should be grateful to you."

Beneath Karen's angry exterior and the finger wagging in Nikki's face, a detached part of her mind realised what a kindness the other woman had done her. When she had put this experience past her, she might even express her gratitude to her one of these days.

"I'll leave the matter in your hands. By the way, thanks for the help with my budgets. I really am grateful for your help,"came the meek reply with downcast lids.

"Oh... anytime," Karen said vaguely. That conversation was already a million miles away.

A couple of hours later, the phone finally rang and when Grayling made the preliminary polite introduction, Karen wasted no time in getting to the point.

"If you're thinking of trying to sweet-talk me into going to visit that prisoner from hell, Tessa Spall, to dish the dirt on Sylvia, you've been beaten to it. Both Helen and Nikki have worked it in relays to browbeat me and I think they might have succeeded. Before I ever set foot near Tessa Spall, I need safeguards to ensure I don't step into the lion's den. Once bitten, twice shy you know," Karen announced in peremptory tones.

Grayling had the greatest difficulty in stopping a beaming grin of satisfaction leaking its expression into his tone of voice. Besides, he couldn't count on it that they'd succeeded.

"I'm sure you're not thinking you're going to have a rerun of that horrendous experience last time she was on G Wing. All the king's horses and all the king's men are at your personal disposal to ensure your safety."

"Not the best chosen expression to use Neil,"Karen said tersely while Grayling pondered how he'd put his foot in it. He'd got rusty at children's nursey rhymes and this one had turned round to bite him."Still, I think I'll do it but only in my own way and in my own time."

"Naturally," Grayling said, knowing that he ought to go to the limit to accommodate Karen.

"I'm thinking on this overnight and I'll give you my answer," pursued Karen, not wanting to give the impression that she was a pushover. She got what she asked for easily enough.

Sure enough, on ** Monday **the fourth of December 2006, a date to be enscribed on her records, she walked along the long white corridor with hardly any outside light, only strip lights set in the ceiling above her. It was the approach route to the psychiatric wing at Larkhall Prison, which struck her on her rare appearances on the wing as peculiarly bound by constraints in an antiseptic fashion. It was buried in the recesses of the main block. She came to the door with a small window set in it which swung noiselessly back once the necessary numbers to the keypad lock had been pressed. She turned into the wing governor's office to make her presence known. It was the least she could do.

"Nice to see you Karen," the middle aged man said without any expression in his voice. He was a tall, untidy middle aged man with iron-grey hair who had striven to achieve his present grade over a number of years. His move from Pentonville on promotion a couple of years back made him feel that his career was more down to systematic application than intuitive talent when Karen's wing governor's meetings had highlighted Nikki's obvious flair in comparison. He hadn't resented his colleague's reputation but that was no comfort..He was not to know that Karen wanted him on his wing because of his own abilities in a delicate area.

"It's not often I see you round these parts." He couldn't stop himself making this remark and Karen leapt at the opportunity presented to her.

"You mean, I don't come round here in comparison with G Wing?" replied Karen. She had felt guilty for a long time that Tessa's presence on the wing had made her avoid visiting the wing as much as she could and this may have sent out the wrong message to Ken.

"Some could put it that way but, hey, it's all the same to me. I know that my wing has my fair share of problems.I can cope with it all." The man's apparently stoical manner didn't fool Karen one second.

"Look Ken," Karen said fixing the man with her blue eyes. "I know I've been remiss in not showing my presence here more than I have but it's nothing to do with you. A long time ago, when I was a Senior Officer at Newby prison, I incurred the deadly emnity of a prisoner now in your care, Tessa Spall. That was behind the incident you must have heard about when she tried to abduct me with a syringe of blood held to my neck. It's been the case of out of sight, out of mind concerning Tessa Spall and I may have unfortunately passsed on this impression to you without meaning it."

"I hadn't thought of it this way," he heard himself saying as if he was watching himself perform these lines on stage. This disembodied reaction was no more than his truth.

"So do you see much of Tessa Spall? Do you get on all right with her?"

"Her attitude to men isn't good but then again, there are women she doesn't take to either. I'm probably pretty harmless in her eyes,"he said in self-deprecating tones.

"Great," smiled Karen cheerily, hearing this shining recommendation. It made the man warm to her for the first time, especially in also clearing the air. "Then you're the ideal person to sit in with me for an interview which, I must emphasise is to remain strictly private and confidential. I ought to explain that the matter I want to clear up is from before your time here."

Ken promptly got up from his desk. He was happy with the situation and was curious to see Karen in action as opposed to the administrator whom he knew.

"I know you've told me that she seems more doped up than I remember,"explained Karen as they strode towards the iron door with the inset vertical metal bars in the square opening in the top panel. "All I ask of you is to verbally intercede if you see fit but otherwise stay in the background. Be ready to slip on your handcuffs on her if things get out of hand." The man sensed the fear behind his boss's exterior and she went up in his estimate of her.

"Cast your mind back a few years back for me Tessa," Karen said slowly and clearly. "Can you tell me if you ever came across a fellow inmate called Shell Dockley. You might have shared a cell with her ." In reality, she was ready to duck despite the vacant look in the other woman's dull eyes. Karen could see that a lot of her old fire had died down and, while the psychotic manner had dulled, so might the original force of her personality and, in particular, her memory. Her hair was dishevelled beyond its natural curls and there were dark shadows under her eyes while her skin was stretched taut on her face. On the other hand, enough of the Tessa Spall of old could still be lurking in her depths. .

"I'm on my own. We all are. A week's a long time ago," came the bleak reply.

"Shell Dockley was tall with long dyed blond hair, blue eyes, good figure," Karen pursued, waiting to see what reaction she elicited. Slowly the mists started to clear from her eyes.

"You mean, ......like my Debs," the woman said as, for the first time, she looked vaguely in Karen's direction before her head slumped down. "I still got her dress you know, in my locker," she mumbled without any tone in her voice.

"That's who I mean, Shell Dockley," Karen repeated herself gently while the man marvelled that Tessa Spall was still able to recall anything of her past. All he'd seen of her was the blank sheet of paper she presented personally as opposed to her bulging, battered looking file.

"Shell Dockley. Shell Dockley. Yeah, I remember her," came the slurred response with a suggestion of chaos in the undertone in her voice. "She was the last woman I ever fancied."

This revelation brought Karen up short. She vividly recalled Nikki telling her that Tessa Spall had once tried to do her over. This was a godsend as Shell Dockly's file had long been sent to Ashmore Prison and Nikki's first hand recall of the past was razor sharp.

"So you're telling me that you and Shell Dockley got on together while she was on this wing?" Karen said in astonishment

"Course we did. I mean I was moved to a double cell, one of the few in this dump. I was dragged out of my single cell and dumped on the floor. I mean, I wasn't made welcome. It wasn't as if I was tucked into bed like I should have been, like me mum did."

At that point, Tessa Spall gave vent to a wierd laugh that chilled Karen to the bone before her head slumped forward again. Nevertheless, she had told Karen one vital glimmer of information about the cell change.

"So that wasn't likely to make you and Shell Dockley best buddies," Ken intervened in easy relaxed tones.

"Course it didn't," Tessa Spall said, cadging a cigarette off him and lighting up, It made her feel a little more relaxed and lucid, at least for a little while. "I remember years before, she'd made out she was the hard bitch of G Wing so I taught her some manners. I reminded her of that to begin with until she won me round with her hymns, her tap-dancing. All of that in my Debs' dress and all........."

Karen's face was a picture as she tried to follow this bizarre story. She had thought she'd known everything there was to know about Shell Dockley but this broke new ground.

"I tell you, I crept into her bunk first thing in the morning and watched over her, cuddled up to her. The screws can't take that away from me......" Tessa said with a dreamy look in her eyes before her face clouded over with sadness. Karen took a chance with Tessa Spall's wavering lucidity and figuring out Sylvia Hollamby's vindictiveness. It was obvious that she would have looked in to gloat over Shell Dockley's sufferings.

"Wait a moment, Tessa. Did you at any time receive any visitors from G Wing?".

"Come to think of it I did," came Tessa's reply, looking directly at Karen. "The door opened and that bitch screw opened the door......"

Ken knew exactly who the bitch screw was and murmured the name in Karen's ear. He'd suffered her conniving presence as someone dangerously powerful on the wing with an unhealthy influence on newcomers. He had intended to talk to Karen about the problems she'd caused only it was very hard to pin her down to anything you could pin on her.

"......She came in with another woman, just like her, face like a smacked arse. She didn't say anything but Shell offered her a biccie like she knew her. I felt they wanted us to be scratching each others' eyes out and we were a real let down.I could never really work that out,"Tessa concluded, her eyes clouding over again as her concentration faded away again.

"I don't think we'll get anything more out of her," Ken said out of the corner of his mouth. Karen agreed with him. Tessa Spall had given them enough to be going on with and they could unravel this puzzle at their leisure, starting with the bitch screw and rechecking the records. Ken knew now that he would receive Karen's valuable input on this one. His day was already starting to get brighter.


	77. Chapter 77

A/N: If possible, listen to recordings of these carols done by the choir from King's College Cambridge.

Part Seventy Seven

It was Friday evening, the first day in December, and George was itching to leave work and get home. An evening in front of her welcoming log fire was precisely what she needed to help her wind down from the week of mainly fruitless legal arguments that she'd been forced to endure. But Karen had phoned her at lunchtime, asking George if she would drop in on her after work, because she had come into the possession of something that George needed to see concerning Connie and her case. Unable for the life of her to imagine what this might be, George got in her car and drove towards Karen's flat, thinking that she thankfully didn't have to go anywhere near Larkhall on a dark and forbidding night like this. The car heater didn't appear to be making much of a dent on the icy temperature and George was shivering by the time she drew up in front of Karen's flat.

"You're freezing," Karen said when she opened the door.

"Well, at least you didn't want to see me at Larkhall," George replied as she moved briefly into the welcoming warmth of Karen's arms.

"I swear that place is haunted this time of year," Karen said as she kissed George on the cheek and moved to pour her a drink.

"Do I need that much Dutch courage?" George asked as Karen handed her a large martini, and poured herself a large scotch.

"You might," Karen told her noncommittally. "I've got something to tell you, something that may give you a stumbling block with Connie's case."

"So you said," George said, watching Karen as she joined her on the sofa.

"Just how well do you know Connie?" Karen asked carefully. She had been initially wary of the relationship George was engaging in with Connie, but now she was certain that George was heading for a fall.

"I'm learning," George responded tentatively. "Gradually, I will openly admit, but I am learning. Why, what do you have to tell me that you assume I don't already know?"

"Thomas Waugh came to see me today, because when Connie was under his care, he discovered something about her past, something that I suspect the prosecution would use to make mincemeat of her. He asked me to pass this information onto you, because he cannot be seen to directly contradict the ethics surrounding patient confidentiality."

"Yes, I get that bit," George replied a little impatiently. "So, what did she tell him?"

"Connie didn't tell him anything, it was something Thomas found during Connie's twelve week ultrasound scan. You might not know this, but any pregnancy leaves a scar, from where the placenta was attached to the inside of the womb. Connie had such a scar, and going by the size of that scar, Thomas estimated that her foetus was twenty eight or twenty nine weeks when it was born." As the colour visibly drained from George's face, Karen realised that no, George hadn't been aware of this. "You didn't know, did you?" Karen said into the resulting silence.

"No, I didn't," George told her, desperately trying to keep her emotions under control. "But I think I know when it happened, and partly why. When she was sixteen, Connie managed to not only get herself a caution for possession of cannabis, but a caution for soliciting." Karen's eyebrows rose to meet her hairline.

"So her baby might have been withdrawing from drugs," Karen said, trying to put the pieces together.

"You don't know that!" George insisted vehemently. "You have absolutely nothing to remotely support such an assertion."

"You know that it's the most likely scenario," Karen told her quietly, trying to calm her down.

"I'm sorry," George said after a moment's pause, feeling more than a little foolish. "Do you have any actual proof of this?" Getting up and going to her briefcase, Karen retrieved a thin folder and brought it over to the sofa.

"This is the significantly enlarged picture of Connie's twelve week scan," Karen said as she opened the folder to the correct page and switched on the lamp on the side table. "That's the foetus she had at the time, with its cord and placenta, and the darker shadowed area completely separated from that foetus, is the placental scar from Connie's previous pregnancy." As she took in the clear evidence of the scar that Connie even now still had inside her, George felt the tears rising behind her eyes.

"I can't even imagine what she must have gone through," She said, closing the folder and laying it on the coffee table. "Can I leave this with you?" She asked, "Because anything I supposedly have access to about Connie, the prosecution has a right to see, and I have no intention of making it easy for them."

"Of course," Karen told her. "What are you going to do now?"

"I'm going to see her," George said very teary-eyed. "Not to talk about this, just to see her." When George had put her coat on and was ready to go, Karen put her arms round her and said,

"Just promise me something, promise to be careful. It's entirely obvious just how close you are getting to her, but just try not to jump without a safety net. Okay?"

"I'll endeavour to remember that," George told her with a watery smile, knowing that should she ever need a safety net, she had one standing right here.

As George drove through central London, she couldn't help shedding a few tears for what Connie had experienced. If Connie's baby had died, and that was by no means certain, Connie would probably have felt unbearably guilty for years, and undoubtedly still did. But her baby might have been adopted, anything was possible. As she drove passed Charing Cross station and along Leicester Square, her thoughts drifted to the girl Connie had been. If she had been working the streets, she must have been homeless for a time, and pregnant into the bargain. Why on earth had this happened? Had she been thrown out for becoming pregnant, or had that happened as a result of the selling of her body. But as she reached Trafalgar, the welcoming lights of the church of St. Martin in the fields caught her eye. Acting purely on a whim, she drew her car up not far from the church, taking care to lock it, and walking round the corner to The Strand, she mounted the steps and walked in through its main doors. The choir were holding their Friday night practice, clearly in preparation for an upcoming carol service, and the haunting tones of 'In the bleak midwinter' greeted her. Taking a seat in a pew at the back, George allowed the music to wash over her.

"In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan.

Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone.

Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow.

In the bleak midwinter, long ago."

In the dim lighting where she sat, George could allow her tears to silently flow. What on earth had driven Connie to take so drastic an action as to leave her home, and have sex with men old enough to be her father? What had made her do this at the most vulnerable of all ages for a young girl, just as she was on the crest of womanhood, requiring the support and guidance of if not a mother, then of a loving father, as she, George had been given. Just what was it that was lurking there, causing Connie to distrust everyone in her vicinity, but especially the men who crossed her path? This was something that George had discovered about Connie when researching her for the Barbara mills trial, and it now made so much more sense, though not as much sense as George knew it would if she were cognisant of all the facts.

"What can I give him, poor as I am?

If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb.

If I were a Wiseman, I would do my part.

What I can I give him, give my heart."

That was all she really could do, George thought to herself, searching for a handkerchief and wiping her eyes. She could give her heart to Connie, give her heart and trust that it would be cared for. As the choir made their way through 'God rest ye merry gentlemen' and 'Once in royal David's city', George knew that this was what she had needed, to sit in an anonymous place such as this, listening to what sounded like true angels. They were singing of belief, rebirth, and of absolute faith. George hadn't believed in God since her childhood, not since her mother had been taken from her life so suddenly. Her childish reason for refusing to believe any longer in any being of gracious glory from the skies, was a little less simplistic than it had been at the age of ten, but it was no less firm for all her maturity. But she had always found carols to be the most beautiful of religious outpourings, and it usually lightened her heart somewhat to listen to their resonant purity.

"The First Noel, the angels did say,

Was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay.

In fields where they lay, keeping their sheep,

On a cold winter's night, that was so deep.

Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel,

Born is the king of Israel."

As this carol soared up to the rafters, enhanced by the organ, George could feel her own spirits lifting. She was undoubtedly deeply saddened by having been told about Connie's baby, but that didn't in any way diminish what she felt and was beginning to feel for Connie. She knew that it was hardly sensible to feel so much for a woman whom, she was forced to admit, she still didn't know awfully well. But as she had said so emphatically to Karen, she was learning. Connie was highly complex in nature, with skeletons and flaws, just as George herself was, which made it all the easier to want to protect Connie from the horrors of her upcoming trial, and to get to know the positive, at times impulsive side of Connie that George was well aware could be an incredibly bad influence on her. But wasn't that what true, sincere, lasting relationships were all about, taking the rough with the smooth, the good with the bad, conquering the battles as much as enjoying the spoils?

As the choir moved through a rendition of 'Oh come all ye faithful', George rose from the pew, gathered her scattered thoughts together and walked quietly out of the church. As she made to walk down the steps, she saw a young girl sitting on the top step, huddled in on herself and wearing not nearly enough clothes for the time of year. She looked painfully thin, with long dark curly hair, and a purple bruise marring her young cheek. As George pulled her own coat more securely around her, she couldn't help but think of the age Connie had been when she had no doubt been seeking any shelter from the cold, as this girl was doing now. Almost unable to believe what she was doing, George sat down next to the girl, and asked,

"What's you're name?" Glancing round at her, the girl gave a shrug.

"What do you want it to be?" She replied, in a dull, belligerent south London accent. Slightly nonplussed by this reply, George asked,

"Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?"

"Might find a bench on the platform at Charing Cross if I'm lucky."

"And do you have some money to get something to eat?"

"No," The girl replied disparagingly. "The police were all over King's Cross today, so not one single punter."

"How old are you?" George asked, wanting in some way to do something positive for this girl.

"What do you care?" The girl demanded. "You a social worker or something?"

"No," George told her candidly. "I'm a barrister."

"Yeah, you look like one of the law." Trying to ignore the distinct insult that came with that reply, George allowed the voices of the choir to filter through to them for a moment before asking,

"So, why are you sitting out here?"

"I like to listen to the singing," The girl told her with a slight smile. "They're so beautiful."

Mentally going through the contents of her car, trying to think of something that she could give this girl to even slightly improve her night on a railway platform, George suddenly remembered the thick blanket that she had folded up in the boot. When she got to her feet, the girl said, "You going then?"

"My car's only just round the corner," George told her. "I've got something I think you could do with."

"What's that then?" The girl asked warily.

"A blanket," George told her. "It's never been used and it's never likely to be used. It's yours if you want it."

"I can't pay you for it," The girl told her frankly.

"I don't want anything for it," George replied, feeling unbearably humbled by this child who was so much older than her years.

"People usually want something," She said matter-of-factly. "How comes you don't?"

"Because I know someone who was once in the position you're in now," George told her. "And I would like to think that she occasionally had a little bit of luck, no matter how mundane that might have been." Shrugging at George's words, the girl stood stiffly up from the steps and followed George round the corner of the church to her car. When George unlocked the boot and handed her the blanket, the girl cuddled it close to her, as though George might be about to take it right back. Under cover of the darkness, George hurriedly rifled through her handbag and withdrew the two notes she had in her purse, making a total of thirty pounds. When the girl looked up to thank her for the blanket, George handed her the money.

"Please make sure you get yourself something to eat as well as a hot drink." The girl stared at her, then at the money, then back at George.

"Thank you," She said, a genuine smile touching her lips. "I won't forget this." As George drove away and the dark-haired prostitute faded back into the darkness, no doubt to return to the steps of St. Martin in the fields, to listen to the rest of the choir practice, George hoped that just for once in her life she had done something good, something worthwhile.

When Connie opened the door to see George standing on the step, she looked pleased to see her.

"This is a nice surprise," She said as George moved into the hall.

"I'm not disturbing you, am I?" George asked as Connie took her coat for her.

"No, of course not," Connie told her. "As I said, it's lovely to see you."

"Then why did you look ever so slightly guilty when you saw it was me on your doorstep?" George asked her with a little smirk.

"Ah, well, that would be because you've caught me in the act of smoking a joint," Connie told her a little shame facedly. George laughed.

"Is that all?" She said, moving to put her arms round this beautiful woman whom she now knew so much more about. Not just from Karen's revelations, but from her brief conversation with the prostitute.

"I thought you'd be disapproving at the very least," Connie said after kissing George lingeringly.

"Any other day, you'd be entirely correct," George told her a little sternly. "But not today," She finished quietly.

"Are you all right?" Connie asked, seeing something that she couldn't immediately identify in George's face.

"My most pressing concern is that I'm bloody freezing," George told her, wanting to distract Connie's all too knowing gaze.

"What on earth have you been doing to get quite so cold?" Connie asked, taking George's hand and finding it to resemble a block of ice.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," George told her evasively, following her into the lounge, to join Connie on the sofa opposite a crackling log fire.

"Do you want some of this?" Connie asked, gesturing to the joint that was resting on the edge of the ashtray.

"Where did you get it?" George asked.

"From Ric," Connie told her. "Who else? He left it in an envelope in my desk drawer this lunchtime. I went to see him last weekend and we sorted things out."

"Good," George said approvingly. "He really does care about you, you know."

"He said exactly the same thing about you," Connie told her with a soft smile.

"Well I do care about you," George replied honestly. "Far more than is probably good for me, but there you are. As for the joint, it's been one of those days, so yes, why not."

When Connie had lit the joint and taken a drag, she handed it to George and watched her take a gentle, very experimental drag.

"It's nearly thirty years since I smoked cannabis," George said after handing the joint back to Connie. "When I was doing my law finals and I used to spend the weekends with John, improving both my legal knowledge and sexual skill in equal quantities."

Connie laughed huskily.

"I can't picture John smoking dope," She said thoughtfully.

"Oh, he didn't," George clarified for her. "But he occasionally used to allow me to smoke it on the balcony of the flat he had at the time."

"So you met him when you were what, twenty?"

"Yes, thirty years ago this New Year's Eve," George told her. "I was dreading becoming fifty, but I was finishing chemo at the beginning of June, so I didn't really notice it."

"You don't look fifty," Connie told her kindly.

"And you've never seen me either during or after a serious phase of not eating," George said matter-of-factly. "When I'm doing that in a big way, I look a good deal older than fifty."

"How old were you when you first did that?" Connie asked, wanting to slightly uncover a little of George's psyche, as George had been attempting to do with her all these weeks.

"I was fifteen," George told her. "But it was more of a habit than a problem in those days. It only really became a problem after Charlie was born."

"Is that when John found out about it?" Connie asked gently, being careful not to question the reason as to why George had stopped eating on that particular occasion.

"Something like that," George replied guardedly, as though she wished that she hadn't started this conversation. As George took another drag of the joint, Connie strove to find a more comfortable topic for discussion.

"You know," She said with a broad smile. "Ric is incredibly curious about you."

"What do you mean, curious?" George asked suspiciously.

"Well, it seems that I wasn't the first woman to tell him just how wonderful it was to sleep with you."

"Oh god," George groaned theatrically. "I should have sworn both you and Karen to a vow of silence." Connie laughed.

"Hey, he was curious in a good way, I promise."

"Really?" George couldn't help but ask.

"Definitely," Connie was delighted to tell her, thinking that George's confidence could probably do with a good boost. "And then I had to tell him that the one and only time I have slept with you, I fell asleep before I could try my hand so to speak." George grinned. "Yes, he thought it was hilarious too."

"So, come on then," George challenged her. "If you've satisfied Ric's curiosity about me, you can do the same in reverse."

"What do you want to know?" Connie asked with a smirk.

"Whatever you want to tell me," George encouraged her.

"Well, you know what they say about black Africans? Let's just say that it's all true, down to the last inch." George's eyes widened as she immediately cottoned onto what Connie was telling her.

"Ah, but is there quality as well as quantity?" George enquired with a smirk.

"Oh yes," Connie replied without a moment's hesitation. "I'm not entirely sure how open he would be to anything hugely different from the norm, but he won't be getting any complaints from me any time soon, and believe me, I'm very fussy."

"Why don't I doubt that for a moment?" George asked with a laugh.

"So, what about John?"

"You know about John, you've slept with him."

"Only twice," Connie corrected her. "And the second time, I'm fairly sure he did what is predominantly his favourite thing, other than straightforward fucking."

"Bloody typical!" George said in mock outrage. "You mean he got to find out how divine you taste before I did!" Connie burst into helpless laughter, crying tears of mirth, something she hadn't done for many a long year.

"You're priceless," She said, putting out her arms and drawing George towards her.

"You're right though," George told her, their faces very close together. "That is and always has been his favourite thing."

"I don't want to talk about John," Connie said, her voice having turned deep and sultry, as serious in its meaning as her verdict would eventually be.

When their lips met, it was hungry, it was passionate, it was utterly captivating. Connie had the slightly mad urge to make love to George right where they were on the sofa, but she just about managed to control herself.

"Does it sound selfish to say that I want you," Connie said huskily when they eventually came up for air.

"No," George told her, trailing kisses down Connie's throat. "It sounds wonderful."

"Then do you mind if we take this somewhere far more comfortable?"

"I thought you'd never ask," George quipped back at her, following Connie up the stairs, into a bedroom that was as warm and inviting as her own. They may have only made love the one time before this, but once they were under the goose-feather duvet, their exploration of each other was far less tentative than it had previously been. Connie was determined to make good on her promise of returning the favour, and was all over George in an instant, kissing her way down until she was deftly sucking George's nipple. The slightly strangled sound that emanated from George truly was music to Connie's ears.

"You are so beautiful," Connie told her.

"and you're more than a little stoned," George told her, bringing her hands down to tenderly squeeze and massage Connie's breasts.

"Stoned on lust perhaps," Connie partially agreed. When Connie slipped a questing hand between George's legs, she was enchanted to discover just how aroused George was, and this was all because of her! George attempted to curtail her vocal reactions to Connie's ministrations, but Connie reminded George of what she had said to Connie on their previous occasion.

"You remember telling me not to worry about being quiet? Well, start taking your own advice." Turning onto her right side, George began familiarly moving her hand between Connie's legs, as they exchanged deepening kisses and words of encouragement. Then George said something that she wouldn't have dreamt of saying in a million years, and which she afterwards conveniently blamed on the dope she had smoked.

"I wish you could fuck me, like John does," To which Connie came back with a swift rejoinder.

"I do possess a dildo, if that would help."

"Don't you dare stop, for anything," George almost implored her. Taking George at her word, Connie's movements sped up, tipping George over the edge into a mind-blowing orgasm, in which Connie very shortly followed.

As they lay close together, their breathing gradually returning to normal, Connie carefully lifted her right hand above the duvet, and took her first experimental taste of female essence.

"Is that a no, a yes, or a maybe?" George asked, watching her intently.

"Oh, definitely a yes," Connie told her, putting her arms round George and kissing her gently. "And yes, I really did say that about a dildo."

"Not something I'd ever have thought you would have a need for," George mused thoughtfully, lifting a hand to cover a yawn.

"I don't think I've ever used it," Connie replied, running a hand up and down George's back.

"Sorry I said that about John," George said after a contented silence.

"Nothing to be sorry for," Connie told her drowsily. "Besides, I want to know all your little quirks, especially the sexual ones."

"You might come to regret that."

"Oh well, as long as I come, I really don't mind," Connie replied, fondly kissing the top of George's head. But as George slowly drifted off to sleep, with her head on Connie's chest, her thoughts wandered back to the girl outside the church, George briefly hoping that she really had found somewhere at least vaguely sheltered to spend the night.


	78. Chapter 78

Part Seventy Eight

On Monday the fourth of December, Connie arrived at the Hadlington bright and early, eager to get her sterilisation operation over and done with. She hadn't dwelt all that deeply on the fact that by going ahead with this she would be putting an end to her ever becoming a mother, because she knew that if she did, she would more than likely put it off for as long as possible. Bloods were taken, questions were asked, and she was prepared for theatre. Connie was heartily greatful that the staff who were dealing with her were being just as professional with her as they would with a normal patient, whom they didn't have to work with on a fairly regular basis. When Owen came to check in with her at one point, he did ask her if she was sure that she wanted to go through with this.

"I'm as sure as I'll ever be," She told him seriously. "Motherhood is simply a complication that I really do not need, not now, not ever."

When she was eventually wheeled into theatre in the mid afternoon, Zubin was there waiting for her.

"Professor Khan," Connie said, not really having expected to see him.

"Mrs. Beauchamp," He replied politely. Then, as a theatre nurse handed him a fax and he read its contents, his face darkened with anger. "Could you leave us please?" he asked the two nurses and the SHO, gesturing to them to vacate the room. When they'd gone, he waved the fax in front of Connie's face where it lay on the pillow.

"Care to explain this?" He demanded icily.

"What?" She replied, though thinking that she knew what was coming.

"Cannabis," Zubin told her. "Do I need to say any more?"

"Ah," Connie replied a little shame-facedly. "I stupidly forgot that you would probably do a drugs screen before giving a general anaesthetic."

"When did you last smoke it?" Zubin asked, thinking that he could guess from whom she had obtained it.

"Friday night," Connie told her. "Yes, yes, I know, three days before an anaesthetic, it was particularly stupid, but I forgot, I'm sorry."

"And I suppose that Ric gave it to you?"

"Yes," Connie replied quietly. "But it's not his fault. I shouldn't have smoked it so close to today. You're not going to refuse to anaesthetise me, are you?"

"No, but if you experience any problems as a result, I expect no comeback whatsoever." Letting the others back into the theatre and as he sent Connie off to sleep, Zubin reflected that it was a toss up who was the worse influence on the other, Connie, or Ric.

When George left the office some time after six, she drove across London to the Hadlington, where she had been given her surgery and her chemotherapy. She wanted to see Connie, to make sure she was all right after her sterilisation. George had been saddened when Connie had told her of the upcoming operation, especially now that she knew of Connie's baby when she had been a lot younger. She thought that Connie might be feeling some regret, and wanted to cheer her up if this was remotely possible. When she was shown into Connie's private room, Connie was still asleep. Sitting down in the chair beside her bed, George took Connie's right hand in hers, gently stroking the back of it.

"Hello," Connie said drowsily, still hardly opening her eyes.

"How do you feel?" George asked quietly.

"Okay," Connie replied thoughtfully, wincing as she tried to move to sit up.

"Lie still," George urged her with a smile. "Remember the advice you would give to your patients."

"Zubin's not very happy with me," Connie said after a long pause, as she drifted in and out of consciousness.

"Why?" George asked, contented just to sit with Connie, allowing her to talk as she pleased.

"They did a drug's screen when they took some blood this morning."

"Oh dear," George replied in sympathy. Connie lapsed back into sleep for nearly an hour and George sat, just listening to her soft deep breathing.

When she woke again, she seemed far more with it than she had before.

"Thank you for coming to see me," She said, making an effort to stay awake somewhat longer.

"That's all right," George told her fondly. "Did everything go to plan?"

"Yes, as far as I know," Connie replied. Then, turning her head on the pillow to look straight at George, she said, "Now, whilst I am clearly a captive audience, why not satisfy my curiosity about whatever it was you were doing before you came to see me on Friday night."

"Do you really want to know?" George asked, realising that Connie couldn't be as easily distracted as she had thought.

"As you so clearly didn't want to tell me, yes, I do," Connie said with a slight quirk to her lips.

"When I was on my way to see you," George began, deliberately leaving out the conversation she'd had with Karen. "I passed St. Martin in the Fields church, and I went into listen to the choir practice. Let's just say that I needed something to settle my thoughts, and their voices were the perfect antidote to stress. When I came out of the church, there was a young prostitute sitting on the steps. I got talking to her, and discovered that she was homeless."

"What did you do?" Connie asked, thinking that she could see where this was going.

"I gave her the blanket I kept in my car, and all the cash I had on me, which wasn't much, but it might have kept her in food for a few days."

"Do I need to tell you just how stupid and naïve that actually was?" Connie said sadly, realising just what had been in George's mind.

"Naïve I will give you, but it wasn't stupid," George replied firmly.

"Yes, it was," Connie told her just as firmly. "She might have been carrying a knife or anything. Promise me never to do anything like that again. What on earth made you do it?" Though Connie was fairly certain that she knew.

"She made me think about you," George said quietly. "She made me wonder just what had happened to you at that time in your life. Let's face it, Connie, I don't know what made you do that in the first place, do I, and no, I don't honestly expect you to ever tell me. I would like you to tell me, and maybe one day you will, but maybe you won't. I just wanted to do something useful for her, that's all."

"I know," Connie replied gently, pulling George towards her so that as George leaned over her, Connie's arms rose to go around her. "You soft thing you," Connie said, fondly kissing George's cheek. "Just try to be careful in future, okay?"

"I will," George promised her, tenderly covering Connie's lips with her own.

When Ric carefully and silently pushed open the door to Connie's room a few minutes later, he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. George was gracefully leaning over Connie, with Connie's arms up around her shoulders, their lips caressing the others so tenderly, so sweetly, that it made him have to stifle a gasp.

"I think we've got an audience," Connie told George, gently pushing the other woman away from her. George blushed when she saw that it was Ric who had disturbed them, but he only smiled reassuringly at her.

"I should go," George said, not quite meeting Ric's eyes. "It'll be nearly the end of visiting time."

"Thank you for coming to see me," Connie said, briefly touching George's hand.

"Will you be all right for getting home tomorrow, or would you like me to come and get you?"

"I'll be fine," Connie assured her.

"Absolutely not," Ric told her firmly. "You aren't going anywhere near the wheel of your car the day after a general anaesthetic. I'll drive you home myself."

"Okay," Connie replied meekly. "If you insist."

"I'm glad I've seen you," George said, looking over at Ric. "Do you have time this evening for me to pick your brains about the prosecution's witnesses?"

"Yeah, sure," Ric told her, thinking that spending his evening with a beautiful woman, no matter how unobtainable, was definitely preferable to spending it alone.

"Please will you take him home and make sure he eats a decent meal?" Connie asked George, suddenly having the urge to enjoy a little smirk at both their expense.

"You don't have to," Ric put in, not entirely sure what game Connie thought she was playing.

"Of course I will," George reassured him. "If I give you dinner and a couple of glasses of wine, who knows what information you might decide to give me." Ric laughed, though he found himself wondering afterwards just how serious she had actually been.

A little while later as George drove herself and Ric across London towards her house, she said,

"You might want to prepare yourself for a roasting from Professor Khan. Connie says that they did a drugs' screen on her blood this morning, and discovered the presence of the joint you gave her on Friday."

"Oh great," Ric said in slight disgust. "Zubin is never happier than when he can have the upper hand. I didn't think she'd smoke it so quickly."

"Well, she did, on Friday night, and very nice it was too," George added with a broad smile. Ric broke into a grin to match hers.

"Connie appears to be a very bad influence," he said with mock severity.

"It was the first time I'd smoked it in nearly thirty years, so yes, I'd have to agree with you." As they waited at some traffic lights, Ric said,

"I think you're good for her." This very simple statement held all the meaning George needed from him. It was Ric's way of saying that whatever relationship Connie had with George, he didn't feel in any way threatened by it.

"Thank you," She said, briefly taking her eyes off the road to glance over at him.

When they arrived at George's house, they saw that there were lights on.

"My daughter must have come home for something," George said as they got out of the car. When George had let them in, she called, "Charlie?"

"Hi Mum," Came a reply from upstairs. As Ric followed George into her attractive kitchen with the stone-flagged floor, he wondered at the product of two such as John and George, but then reflected that all children took on their own personality quirks, no matter how much of an influence their parents had had on them.

"Will reheated beef casserole that I made last week be all right?" George asked Ric as she rummaged in the freezer.

"Sounds great," Ric said, taking a seat at the table. "Connie put you on the spot really, didn't she."

"Not as much as you might think," George said, retrieving a covered Pyrex bowl from the freezer and smiling over at him. After putting the bowl in the microwave to defrost and then heat through, she put some rice and frozen peas in a saucepan and filled the kettle with water. When Charlie appeared in the kitchen wrapped in a dressing-gown, she raised her eyebrows at Ric's presence.

"Charlie, this is Ric Griffin," George told her. "And Ric, this is my daughter, Charlie, who I am assuming has come here to get ready to go out."

"Hi," Charlie said to Ric who smiled at her. "Mum," She said, watching as her mother poured boiling water over the rice and peas and then switched on the cooker. "Can I borrow that black and silver mini-skirt that you haven't worn since the seventies?"

"Yes, if you can find it," George replied a little doubtfully. "But don't spill anything on it, especially red wine. Do you want something to eat before you go out?"

"No thanks," Charlie said as she returned upstairs.

"Black and silver mini-skirt?" Ric asked with a smirk.

"When I still had the legs to carry it off," George told him, removing a bottle of red from the wine wrack. "Would you like a glass of this?"

"Yes please," Ric told her. Then, as she had her back to him, reaching up to a cupboard for a couple of glasses, he added, "And I should say that you do still have the legs for it." George laughed and then turned to face him.

"I would like to think so." Pouring them both a glass of the aromatic red wine, George took a seat opposite to him.

When George had served their meal and they were about to eat, Charlie reappeared downstairs, wearing the afore mentioned skirt, with a tight black top and a pair of what were clearly her mother's stilettos on her feet.

"Good god," George said when Charlie stood before them. Ric had been about to take a mouthful of food, but put his fork back down on his plate. He stared at Charlie, thinking that if George had looked like this in the seventies, he wished he had known her then.

"How old were you when you last wore this?" Charlie asked her mother. "It's almost too small for me," She said, slightly adjusting the waist of the skirt.

"Probably twenty-one," George told her. "It was definitely before I had you, and are those my shoes?"

"Yeah," Charlie replied with a shrug. "I'll be lucky if they don't cripple me. Why did you keep this skirt if you never wear it?"

"I was wearing it the night I first met your father," George told her, trying to avoid Ric's all too knowing gaze. Ric found himself thinking that if George really had been wearing that tiny skirt when she'd met John, no wonder the man had ended up marrying her. "I wouldn't ever let your father see you go out looking like that," George said after giving her daughter the once over.

"Why do you think I came here to get ready?" Charlie said before waving goodbye and walking out of the front door and closing it with a slam.

"She looks very like you," Ric said when Charlie had gone.

"It only goes skin deep," George said a little morosely. "She has far more of John in her than she does me. In living mainly with John after the age of six," George continued. "Charlie had a far more liberal upbringing than I did. She's always been used to John's fairly erratic personal life."

"and what about yours?" Ric asked, steadily working his way through the plate of delicious beef casserole, with the combined flavours of red wine, herbs and vegetables.

"I tended to keep any private life I had very separate from Charlie," George told him, taking a sip of the wine in her glass. "But in those days, getting my QC was somehow more important than finding a lover. Well, until Neil Haughton, and I only really began something with him, because John was going through an on rather than an off phase with Jo at the time, and Neil was a status symbol that John would never be able to give me."

"Neil Haughton," Ric mused thoughtfully, clearly recognising the name from somewhere. "Hang on, isn't he the Home Secretary?"

"He is, unfortunately, but he was the Secretary of State for Trade at the time."

"You and the judge really do like to wind each other up, don't you," Ric said ruefully.

"We did, certainly," George agreed, "But not nearly so much anymore, thank god."

"Why did it end with Neil Haughton?"

"He gave me a black eye," George told him simply. "And I wasn't stupid enough to hang around long enough to allow it to happen again."

"Very sensible," Ric commended quietly, wondering just what sort of man it took to hit a beautiful woman like the one sitting across from him.

The evening had been progressing very well, with a simple but wonderful meal, and enlightening conversation, until Ric said something that he afterwards deeply regretted.

"It is nice to see you eating a decent meal." Staring at him in frosty disbelief, George carefully replaced the fork back on her plate, before she could be tempted to throw it at him.

"And that is precisely the type of comment that is likely to discourage me from finishing it," She told him icily. Immediately seeing that he had highly offended her, Ric wanted to reach across the table to touch her hand, but he didn't think she would thank him for it.

"I'm sorry," He said a little gruffly, feeling an utter fool for having said such a thing.

"Just let me say this," George told him a little darkly. "If you were ever to appear opposite me in court, for whatever reason, and no matter how well I might usually think of you, I wouldn't hesitate for an instant, before bringing up the matter of Diane Lloyd's credit card, to make you feel as small as you are so obviously capable of making me feel." When the colour drained from Ric's face, George knew that her accurately placed arrow had well and truly hit home.

"Point taken," He said, pausing to take a long drink of wine, suddenly feeling somewhat ill that she knew of one of his worst errors of judgement.

When he looked somewhat more composed, George said,

"Tell me some more about Diane Lloyd."

"Why, so that you can rip her to shreds as well?"

"Yes," George told him emphatically. "Because you can bet your bloody life that Brian Cantwell will have already encouraged her to give him as much dirt on Connie as she can scrape up. Believe me, he won't care whether it's true or fictitious. He thrives on speculation and rumour, and I need something with which to cast doubt on her evidence." After thoughtfully eating another couple of mouthfuls, Ric put his knife and fork together, seeing that no, George wasn't about to finish her meal.

"Diane's attitude is sometimes extremely divisive when it comes to the power levels of medics and nursing staff. She often thinks that as a result of doing five years in med school, followed by the years of working her way through rotations as a junior doctor and an SHO, that she automatically will always know the best way to care for a patient. Yes, in a sense I agree with her, because as doctors, we have the in-depth knowledge of the diseases, drugs and surgical procedures to back up our diagnoses and recommendations for treatment. But it is the nurses who spend real quality time with the patients, well, the good ones do. It's the nurses who are there day in day out with the patients, whilst especially registrars and consultants are usually in theatre, holding clinics or doing research. A few months before Connie came to work at St. Mary's, we had a nurse working on Keller ward, the ward that I run and where Diane works, who systematically killed off a number of patients." George's eyebrows climbed. "Does the name Kelly York mean anything to you?"

"No, but I'm not a criminal lawyer usually, so perhaps it wouldn't."

"Well, she was a staff nurse on Keller, and she was killing her victims by overdosing them with insulin. When the police began questioning everyone, Diane was very dismissive of Detective Inspector Archer's suggestion that it could be a doctor, assuming quite openly that it must be a nurse. Yes, she did happen to be eventually proved right, but that is hardly the point. It needn't have been a nurse, and some of the nurses threatened to go on strike if she didn't apologise for her accusation." George watched him thoughtfully, listening to the highly bizarre tale begin to unfold.

"Why do you look so tense, talking about this?" George asked, suddenly becoming suspicious of the look in his eyes. Unable to meet her blue, almost hypnotic gaze for this confession, he said,

"I almost slept with Kelly York, and would have done so but for my pager, alerting me to the fact that the cause of death of her first victim had been discovered."

"This is getting complicated," George said with a wince, getting up from the table, picking up her glass of wine and leading Ric into the lounge. When they were sitting at opposite ends of the sofa and George had lit up a cigarette, she asked, "Have you ever told anyone else about this?"

"No," Ric said stonily, digging out his own cigarettes and lighting one. "It's not the sort of thing you tell anyone, is it."

"No," George replied with a slight shudder. "But almost sleeping with her doesn't make you in any way culpable for what she did."

"I know," He agreed, blowing a perfect smoke ring up towards the ceiling. "But it sometimes makes me wonder if I had slept with her, would I have been next."

After refilling his glass because he looked as though he needed it, George said,

"Okay, so getting back to Diane and DI Archer. Go on."

"I'd known DI Archer since the beginning of 2003, because she had investigated Sr. Cath Fox, who also worked on my ward, for assisting her husband's suicide. Archer was determined to prove Cath's guilt from the word go. I don't know if she had a reason for being quite so insistent, but she hasn't been anywhere near so decisive with Connie's case, which is probably why the board allowed Connie back to work, forgetting for a moment tom's threat to strike."

"Good, I can use that," George replied, mentally chalking it up. "I can whittle her down as to why she's really only done the bare minimum where Connie's case is concerned. So when she was investigating the Kelly York fiasco, clearly before it was proved to be Kelly York, was she again determined to prove that Sr. fox was guilty?"

"Yes, and Diane didn't really help matters by agreeing with her. We all were fairly certain that Cath did help Terry to die, but she was eventually found not guilty. It was almost as though Archer was determined to prove that Cath was responsible for the insulin overdoses, because she couldn't prove her guilt with the assisted suicide. Diane was at one point heard to suggest that if Cath had done it once, could she have done it again. There was an awful lot of unfounded accusations floating round the ward during that time, and nothing was helped by Archer and her team taking over my office for days on end."

"Did that all lead up to the New Year's Eve when you used Diane's credit card?" George had asked this fairly gently, but she couldn't prevent Ric's flinch, nor the way he shifted his gaze away from her.

"I was gambling quite a lot around that time," He said, his eyes flitting from the Monet, to the Stubbs, to the piano, but never quite back to her face. "I was either at the casino or stoned. I was fairly stoned the night I almost slept with Kelly York. I would have had to be, because she wasn't remotely attractive." George laughed on an exhalation of smoke which appeared to make him relax. "Diane knew I was gambling, and she definitely knew how bad it could get, because I had quite a serious relationship with her when she was in med school."

"Didn't Karen say that you almost married her?"

"Yes, but we split up because she couldn't put up with the gambling. Quite rightly as it happens, but there you are."

"So let me get this straight," George said thoughtfully, sorting out the legal bombardment in her head. "Diane Lloyd, knowing that you are a compulsive gambler, and knowing full well that you were going through a particularly difficult time because of the sudden rise in unexplained deaths on your ward, lends you her credit card on New Year's Eve, and thinks this is a good idea? It hardly says a lot for her professional judgement, does it."

"You want to use that, don't you," Ric said gloomily.

"I do and I don't," George told him truthfully.

"I do, because it will make her look like a complete idiot and discredit her evidence, but I don't, because I know it will make you feel incredibly small in front of your colleagues, not something I am eager to do."

"It's not as though my gambling has ever been a secret," Ric said thoughtfully. "It's like tom's drinking or Connie's or Chrissie's intermittent screwing, it's just part of who we are. So if you need to use it, use it, but you might ask Tom if he can think of any instances of professional misconduct, because Diane had a thing for him at one time and went through a phase of doing anything possible to be part of his theatre list."

"So why does she loathe Connie quite so much?" George asked, feeling as though they were finally getting to the end of this particular tortuous road of discovery.

"That's easy," Ric supplied, lighting another cigarette. "Connie's everything Diane would like to be: she made consultant at thirty-one, has power coming out of her ears because she is, or at least was, Medical Director, and she can have her pick of male company."

"And Connie currently has the one man Diane wants above anyone else, including her husband apparently."

"She wants the good things about being with me, not the whole package," Ric said philosophically.

"So, she doesn't want you, but she doesn't want anyone else to have you either?" George interpreted for him. "That sounds like John and Jo half the time."

"Yeah, something like that," Ric said with a slight laugh. "She acts as though she despises Connie for being so professionally successful, but its envy more than anything else. Diane wrongly assumes that Connie slept her way to the top."

"Does she have any actual reason for thinking that Connie is guilty?"

"Other than it being a convenient excuse to castigate Connie, no, I don't think so."

"Good, I can make quite a lot of everything you've given me."

After a long, thoughtful pause, Ric gently covered George's hand with his.

"I'm sorry for what I said earlier."

"Oh, that's all right," George told him matter-of-factly. "You can comment on my eating or not eating all you like, just not in this house. John's known about it since Charlie was six months old, and he still doesn't really know how to deal with it." As Ric listened to the wind and rain outside and watched George's face in the fire light, he had the overwhelming urge to take her to bed. Not to make love to her, not to discover all the tantalising secrets of her body, but just to hold her, just to tenderly embrace her petite frame, to soothe away all the jagged edges of hurt that he could see not far below the surface.

"Can you satisfy my curiosity about something?" he asked into the resulting silence, in an attempt to steer his thoughts away from going to sleep with George in her soft warm bed. "Am I going to learn things at Connie's trial, things that I perhaps don't want to learn?"

"I wondered how long that would take you," George replied a little sadly. "And the simple answer is yes, you are about to learn things that you won't want to know in a million years. It isn't just you that Connie is refusing to tell, it's me too. I've only managed to drag out of her the things that it would take me five minutes to find out anyway. I have been urging her to put you in the picture for weeks, but so far I'm achieving absolutely nil results. Just try to be prepared for the fact that there is an awful lot you don't know about Connie. All I ask, is that you give her a chance to explain it to you, before judging her on facts you will almost certainly hear in court." Some time later, as a cab pulled up for Ric outside, they stood in the hall regarding each other thoughtfully. Ric badly wanted to stay, to have her in his arms throughout the long dark night, and George, much to her astonishment, wanted to feel those arms around her, to know what it would be like to rest her head on the chest of this incredibly complicated man. When the sound of the cab's horn reached them, Ric impulsively put out his arms and drew George to him.

"Take care of yourself," he told her, softly kissing her cheek and just for those few seconds holding her against him. As he moved through the pouring rain to the cab, she watched him from the open door, briefly waving to him as the cab drew away, and wondering why her curiosity had yet again been piqued.


	79. Chapter 79

**A/N: The recipe that John uses can be found on page 186 of Delia Smith's Complete Cookery Course. **

**Part Seventy-Nine **

As the days got closer to Christmas, feelings of panic welled up in Jo while she joined the manic throng rushing around the shops as the forerunner of the festive season . She knew very well that her state of mind was down to being kept at a distance by John for longer than she would ever have thought possible. It was bad enough for fate to decide that the scales of justice were tilted against her in the first place. It was quite another for her to be unusually forced to seek his forgiveness and for John not to fall into her arms at her first invitation. She came to realise that, peculiarly enough, he was being self-sufficient in the same way that she had deployed that argument once to keep him at arms course, she had had the very best reasons in the world for doing so as he had let her down time and time again in their problematic personal life.

The occasions she appeared in court and he was the presiding judge did nothing to resolve matters. He was scrupulously fair and polite towards her and his behaviour was certainly unexceptional but this was half the trouble. He didn't discreetly ask her to come to his chambers but treated both barristers equally fairly. The only way she could formulate a complaint to herself was that he didn't reveal the man behind the mask

She was not to know that John was in a parallel had heard from George that Jo had finally made her peace with her but he resolved that if and when he forgave Jo would be down to him, not anyone else. He knew very well that Cantwell would use the knowledge he had acquired to make him pay heavily for all the advantages he had gained over the man, not least of which was that he was a high court judge and Cantwell was not. On the other hand, he was not the person to hoard grudges where the person concerned had acted stupidly out of a momentary lapse in reason. It was a different matter where that person transgressed the basic principles of human decency and had the power to inflict misery on mankind. It was obvious that Jo stood in the first group and Houghton in the second. From that conclusion, it was child's play to work out that, as Jo hadn't worked out how she could mend fences, it was down to him.

"Coope," I'd be grateful if you could pass a message to Jo Mills that I want to see her in my chambers at the end of the trial."

Coope shot him a surprised glance and wondered what on earth this unpredictable man was up to these days. It was all so simple when Jo Mills used to come to his chambers and she acted as minder to the assortment of women with whom he misbehaved himself, including ensuring that particularly incriminating CCTV evidence never saw the light of day. Nevertheless, her lips intoned the usual response and she pursued her errand while the jury was out, deliberating their verdict.

Jo bounced out of court, feeling on top of the world, partly because the judgment had gone her way and partly as John had so neatly solved her dilemma. The meal would take place tomorrow, on Saturday the 23rd of December 2006. She could now devote herself fully to preparing for her two sons coming down from university and wanting to mentally revert to childhood, including temporary paralysis of limbs on Christmas day, excluding eating Christmas dinner and operating the TV remote control while Jo slaved away in the kitchen. She bumped into George in the locker room, expecting George to be peevish as the judgment had gone against her client. Instead, she generously greeted Jo and wanted to know what was making her especially happy. George could read the signs a mile away.

"Good for you Jo," George replied a broad smile on her face as Jo confirmed what she had strongly suspected. "I can assure you that John is a good cook these days."

"Did John mention if you were coming round as well?" Jo asked cautiously. She was beginning to put two and two together, as she thought.

"Not me Jo,"drawled George in reply. "If you must know, I have other fish to fry."

Smiling enigmatically, George shut her locker door shut and strolled elegantly down the corridor, the dignified effect of her blue formal knee-length skirt being somewhat marred by the side slit. In fact, she had nothing particularly planned except giving John a clear field in which to operate but Jo was not to know that. In turn, Jo was so delighted with the trurnaround in her fortunes that it never occurred to her to berate John for holding out until the last possible moment.

It wasn't until Jo started to change out of her work clothes into something more seductive when she suddenly paused for thought. She realised that John had done nothing more but invited her round for dinner which he would cook and she had assumed that the coffee course would naturally follow. The trouble was that she hadn't got the slightest idea any more of the ground rules of their complicated relationship and theirs to George. She realised that she would have to go round feeling emotionally naked and very vulnerable. Gritting her teeth, she decided that whatever will be, will be as she opted for a safe compromise outfit.

John greeted her timid knock on the door with a broad smile and open arms. There was no mistaking the genuine warmth of his manner as John kissed her affectionately. Jo could also sense the fragrence of cooking wafting from the kitchen area.

"Your cooking smells gorgeous," Jo said with genuine enthusiasm. "Might I take a look, professionally speaking?"

"Be my guest."John said, with all the confidence in the world. Eagerly, Jo moved forward after John It wasn't lost on him that this was a demonstration of confidence in Jo. It wasn't the case that too many cooks spoil the broth but more the case that too many cooks in the kitchen fight like hell.

John had been busy that morning. He was confident enough in his thinking that the real recipe of the day, blending in his relationship with Jo Mills in a satisfactory fashion leaving no bruised egos. In this matter, he needed no recipes except to trust that the right words would formulate themselves. This wasn't about seducing some nameless woman that he would never see again but it was about the more delicate business of mending fences with a longtime friend and sometimes lover. He felt that attending to this recipe would bring him into the right frame of mind. Diligently, he had followed the recipe by cooking in his saucepan for the required two minutes the melted butter, flour and blending them to a smooth paste, avoiding lumps forming. He smiled to himself as he gradually stirred in milk, chicken stock and cream and delicately adjusted the gas with one hand while stirring with the other so that he coaxed the mixture to a simmering point and cook very gently for 2 or 3 minutes. Then he had removed the pan from the heat and added strips of precooked chicken, a dash of salt, pepper and lemon juice. He had duly quartered and sliced the avocados which he'd covered the baking dish. At last, he was ready to spoon in the mixture from the saucepan and, finally, dusted the concoction with a little grated cheese for flavouring. He had only just transferred the concoction to the oven when he'd heard the knock on the door. He smiled to himself with satisfaction that fate was on his side so far as he had worked flawlessly through the recipe and Jo's entrance couldn't have been better timed. Far better than this than to have part of the recipe half ready and finding himself hot, bothered and irritable and finding the sharp female eye expertly taking in culinary shortcomings with a practised eye.

"I am not only highly impressed with your performance but famished also," Jo exclaimed in flattering tones. John smilingly accepted the compliments which all helped get the evening off to a good sat in the living room and Jo accepted John's slightly distracted manner as she knew that part of him would be timing his meal. They moved to the dining table, neatly set out but Jo looked questioningly at the wine glasses.

"I have a bottle of alcohol free wine," John explained in light-hearted tones. "Needless to say, I have sampled a bottle of it previously when I visited the digs. I got some funny looks from Joe Channing who thought the whole idea was a betrayal of his most deepest held principles but they came around to tolerating me as merely adding to my list of my eccentricities."

Jo smiled warmly back at John. He had struck the right note in not being over solicitous. It boded well for the future of the evening.

"I've been to a few Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, and it's helping me. Of course, it's nothing like the way I used to accompany my father when he used to go to similar meetings."

"It never is when you are forced to take the very medicine that you've been prescribing. I've had my own philosophising backed into a corner before now."

Jo smiled appreciatively at John's discreet understanding and his droll confession of his own occasional wasn't to know that John was referring to his own experiences in therapy at the hands of the very formidable Helen Stewart. He certainly wasn't going to point the finger.

"I think I've been deliberately been keeping myself busy so I don't have to think of the social affairs in our profession this time of the year which is always so well lubricated by alcohol."

"I wouldn't want to underestimate the situation in the slightest but all I can advise you to do is to hold fast in whatever you do. After all, you and I have made that an art form and George has been a remarkably quick learner in that respect. After all, the legal profession used to be meat-eating bastion of the stablishment."

Jo laughed with rich amusement at the way that Monty, of all people, the British bulldog incarnate, had learned to enjoy vegetarian meals. The meal passed on in a dreamlike state to Jo, the cooking tasting remarkably succulewnt. It was just after they finished the dinner with a mutual sigh of satisfaction that Jo suddenly felt impelled to speak. all her concerns that had been swimming around in the depths of her mind suddenly flooded to the surface and demanded expression.

"I ,er thought it only fair to tell you that I've done what you asked me to and spoken to George," Jo stammered, feeling a complete wasn't until she looked away from her own self-image and into John's eyes that she realised that everything was all right, her gaucheness wasn't the biggest crime in humanity. "I know that George loves you unselfishly. I also know that I love you and George but I've had strange ways of showing it."

The words rushed out of her mouth with hardly any premeditation. Swallowing a lump in her throat, she knew there was more to follow and finally she blurted out the truth which she'd been at pains to deny to herself up till now. "I know that the way I behaved to both you and George was unforgivable."

Immediately she finished saying the words, she flushed with embarrassment as she vividly recalled her words to George which had only halfway met the bill while George had been thoroughly open and honest with her.

"You don't have to worry, Jo. I've forgiven what's happened and forgotten it as well. It only remains for us to enjoy this evening with no barriers between us."

Jo looked sharply at John for a second. Was this one of his chat-up lines before she concluded, yes it was but it was also a sincere declaration of friendship. Best to stop forever analysing things, she thought, as she carefully stood up to embrace him from the other side of the table.

"I'm really impressed that you've taken the trouble to cook for me, John. Taking me out to dinner wouldn't have been the same, no matter where it was."

"That was the object of the exercise. I wanted this to be personal."

Maybe it was the gently twinkling lights or the warmth of the occasion but Jo felt as if she'd been drinking some very pleasant champagne which was very seductive yet she was as sober as a church door. That was progress indeed especially the meal hadn't also been served with the artificial stimulant of John's accustomed silver-tongued guile.

"George is obviously having a good influence on you at last," she riposted, slightly teasing them both with the irony of their shared history. The intimate allusion was not lost on John.

"Ah George," John replied in openly affectionate tones. "Of all of us, she has come a long way since the old days, perhaps furthest of all of us. We are both lucky to enjoy her friendship. There are qualities in her that I would not have suspected years ago. "

"That reminds me. There was something in George's manner which suggests that she has found another lover ," Jo interjected out of nowhere. She shook her head in bewilderment at her words as they came from nowhere. They were certainly not part of the unwritten book of etiquette of how women should respond in being wined and dined.

"I know nothing of this,"John replied smoothly. "In any case, I've learned enough of George that there are areas of her life that it is unproductive in which to intrude, moast of all right now. I wanted to talk to you of the forthcoming trial which lies ahead of us now we have the leisure to talk. You don't mind me talking shop right now?"

Again, this was a new development for Jo. She had found that John had this disconcerting habit of abruptly switching back and forth between personal and business matters in order to press a personal advantage, She so appreciated John's consideration that she let pass John's non-committal response regarding George.

"Go ahead. You know that I could object if I wanted to."

"This makes good practice both for when I become your winger and in our personal lives.....Very well, all I want to say is that I know that you have no high personal regard for the defendant Connie Beauchamp but you will be well advised not to let them cloud your professional judgment."

"Whereas your problem may be in the opposite direction, John Deed," Jo said in her most playful tones.

"Whatever they may be, you like me may be burdened with the prospect that a jury might find her guilty and then what will become of us?" John said in sorrowful tones. "That is the burden of our office and a lonely one it can ago, I used to love the prospect of exerting the power of being a judge, in having the final say in justice. Sometimes, it doesn't work out that way."

Those words uttered without artifice touched Jo's soul. He roused her natural sympathies to be by his side. She hadn't seen that vulnerability in him before. After all, she like Charlie had always seen him as Superman in his public duties even though she bitterly knew very well how the private man had fallen short of those Olympian standards that he espoused. She smiled to herself that, despite George's outward disdain over the years, she too had secretly been impressed by John's idiosyncratic version of steadfastness.

The rest of the evening passed by like some lazily comforting dream. It was not till later than Jo expected that a trail of softly discarded clothing was strewn all around John's kingsized bed where Jo lay. The visual image of John's face looking tenderly down on her was one that she wanted to be impressed on her memory forever as everything had come right that evening. This was a million miles away from the way he used to be so impatient to penetrate her and for that night, she'd been persuaded against her better judgment only to hurl her bitter regrets in his face the next day .

They'd adjourned to the settee in the living room where they started to gently kiss and caress each of them had any sense of hurry as an infinity of time lay before them today. Jo loved the feeling of forever running her fingers through John's grey, slightly curling hair while he held her in his strong arms. After all, that was what her ultimate romantic dream was, even though her daytime self mocked at such sentiments for seeming to have escaped from a Barbara Cartland purple prose romance. To hell with it, thought Jo to herself, I might as well own up to myself as to who I really am.

"What are you thinking Jo?" murmured John softly into her ear as he could feel that the time was right for them to talk..

"I thought lovers were supposed to be intuitive, darling," laughed Jo into the dimly lit romantic haze.

"In my experience, that's a recipe for crossed wires and blazing arguments. I'd sooner confess to your face that I've really missed you not being around. I feel incomplete when you're at a distance even if I've kept you that way."

"Well since you're in a listening mood, when are you going to take me to your bed, John?"

She loved the way that she had been gently seduced and being carried off to bed now that they were ready for each other. John smiled gently to her in reassurance and partly to herself as he'd worked out in his mind what Jo really wanted of her relationship rather than projecting his desires on her. It was strange as he carried that slim form in his arms and saw her smile up at him that by taking things deliberately slowly, not only was he getting more surely to his destination but that Jo was fully sharing the journey with him.

Gently, they disrobed each other as they lay on the bed, Jo unbuttoning his open necked white shirt from top to bottom and John considerately unzipping her dress down the back. It was when they were finally in bed together that John softly kissed the lines of her neck, along the lines of her collar bones and delicately used his tongue and lips to cause her nipples to harden. It was then that their sleepy, lazy lovemaking started to shift gear and Jo's fingers caused her lover's manhood to harden. Gently' he lay on top of Jo while they ran their fingers over each other and John took his time to press gently at her centre, not pushing or imposing on her. Jo loved the feel of the muscles in John's body as she ran her fingers down his back. Finally, she wrapped her legs round John as he finally penetrated her and stimulated her to a shudderingly satisfying climax which coincided so wonderfully with his own.

"I've just had a sudden thought,"whispered Jo against John's chest as both their breathing returned to normal.

"Tell me darling. Tell me evrything,"John lazily and confidently asked the world about them. He was in the mood to take anything on and hadn't noticed the faint amusement in her tone of voice..

"Is it appropriate for a High Court judge to have a sexual relationship with a barrister acting as judge who are running a trial together?"

John exploded into laughter and hugged his lover out of sheer affection. His first answer was to kiss Jo deeply and affectionately for a long time. Everything will be all right, he seemed to be saying until he decided to put it into words.

"The unwritten code of conduct hasn't caught up with the idea of women judges so my considered verdict is that what the eye of the establishment doesn't see, what passes for its heart won't grieve over."

Jo laughed out loud at John's brilliantly witty response. It reminded her that John was the one man who could make her laugh and she squeezed him affectionately. It was the precurser to passion coming into its own again.

Hours later, she lay in the crook of his arm feeling replete and considering that, at last after all this time, she'd come home to herself.


	80. Chapter 80

Part Eighty

It was Sunday the twenty-fourth of December, and Christmas Eve of 2006 felt particularly special to George. She wasn't really sure why, just that the domestic atmosphere of having both John and Charlie in her house, together with the knowledge that her father would join them later on made her feel extremely contented. It was mid afternoon and George was in the kitchen, ever her domain at this time of year, preparing various nibbles that they could snack on throughout the evening. Charlie was sitting at the dining-room table wrapping Christmas presents, and John had gone upstairs to wrap the new Blackberry communicator phone they had bought Charlie between them, plus anything else he had bought her. George had bought a couple of other far less significant things for Charlie which were already wrapped and under the Christmas tree. As were her gifts for John. The weekend before, John and Charlie had come round to put up and decorate the Christmas tree which now stood in the bay window at the front of George's lounge. As John came down stairs and put Charlie's presents under the tree, George removed a tray of cheese straws from the oven. These were a particular favourite of John's and he could always be guaranteed on to try and filch one or two whilst they were still cooling. Putting the sausage rolls that she had just constructed into the hot oven, George smiled as she watched a slavering Mimi observing her from the kitchen door. Taking pity on the little dog, George opened the fridge and cut off a small piece of the joint of smoked ham that was also waiting to be eaten later. Holding out the morsel, George laughed as Mimi bounded over to her and gently took the treat from her.

"You spoil her rotten," John said as he came into the kitchen, correctly identifying the heavenly aroma as George's cheese straws that were always lightly sprinkled with black pepper. Lightly plucking one of the still extremely hot creations from the cooling wrack, he winced.

"That'll teach you," George said, smacking ineffectually at his hand.

"You always say that," He said, having eaten the savoury treat. "And I never do learn." George laughed. "You know, I really used to miss your cooking," he told her thoughtfully, briefly thinking back to the years when all their interactions were acrimonious.

"And I thought it was far more basic skills that you missed about me," George replied with a smirk, leaning forward to kiss him.

"Mm, that too," He said, fondly kissing her back. "And there never was anything basic about your skills in that area of my life," He said quietly, his lips grazing her ear.

"Well, talking of my level of cooking expertise, I still have a lot to do," She said, wiping the chopping board to get rid of all traces of flour from the pastry she had used to make the sausage rolls. Putting his arms round her from behind, John sought yet again to distract her.

"Can't we go to bed and make love?" He asked her, tenderly kissing her neck and cupping her breast in his right hand.

"No, certainly not!" George replied in mock disgust, making Charlie smile in the next room. "Because I've got to stuff the turkey for tomorrow, then I've got to make the salad and the coleslaw for later, and Daddy will be here any time after six. So please, keep all thoughts of distraction to yourself, get out of my kitchen and leave me to get on with it."

"Oh well, I suppose I'll have to wait till later," he said, winking at her and pilfering another cheese straw before doing as she asked.

"You're impossible," George called after him.

"And I thought that was what you liked about me," He replied, utterly self-assured.

"When I was naïve and twenty, perhaps," George agreed. "And if you think that I'm doing anything other than actually going to sleep with you, with Daddy staying in the same house, you must be joking." Taking one look at the mixture of frustration and disappointment on her father's face, Charlie laughed.

"She's got a point, Dad."

"It's not as though he doesn't know that his daughter has a healthy sex life," John pursued valiantly.

"Dad," Charlie told him pityingly. "I can't think of a bigger turn off than having sex in the same house as my parents." She gave a somewhat theatrical shudder. "It just isn't worth thinking about."

As George stuffed the turkey with sausage meat at one end and sage and onion stuffing at the other, she reflected that she couldn't really ask for better this Christmas Eve. She and Charlie were on happy speaking terms, as were she and her father, and John was bestowing all the love he had on her. He was being especially demonstrative today, which said more than anything that his night with Jo had been more than successful, so he was trying to give her the same amount of love and affection. But it wasn't just the fact that she had her family around her this Christmas. It was Connie. Her relationship with Connie might be progressing relatively slowly, but this was primarily because they were both very busy people, but George knew that they were both happy with this. The times that they had come together, if only just to talk, to have lunch in the middle of a busy day, or to exchange an occasional phone call last thing at night, were all precious to both of them. They had only made love on two occasions, but neither of them felt in any rush to vastly increase the frequency of this. There was no pressure, no urgency, in spite of the looming issue of Connie's trial. Both times that they had made love had been spectacular, mind-blowing, something that George knew she would never forget, and she had every hope that this would happen again and again.

"What are you thinking about?" John asked her, bringing George out of her day-dream with a jolt.

"Just how happy I am," She told him evasively, though knowing her statement to be entirely true.

"You were miles away," John told her with a soft smile, thinking that he could probably guess where her thoughts had really been.

"Part of me might have been a few miles away," George said, a slight blush staining her cheeks. "But the greater part of me is still here, I promise." Having stuffed the turkey, she laid strips of bacon over the top and after transferring it to the tray it would be cooked in, she wrapped foil over the top. Moving to take it from her to put it out in the garage where it would remain cool until tomorrow, John said,

"Am I to assume that it's going well with Connie, that she's making you happy?"

"Yes," George said, lifting her eyes to meet his. "I'm happier this Christmas than I think I've been in a very long time. I have you and Charlie here with me, Daddy will be here too, and I am building a relationship with Connie that has me utterly captivated. She isn't just sexually exciting, she makes me feel utterly invigorated. Yes, she is without any doubt even more emotionally screwed up than I am, and definitely has the potential to be a very bad influence on me, but that seems to enable me to give free rein to some parts of my personality that I usually keep somewhat hidden."

"That's what you used to say about me when we were married," John said, looking a little sad.

"And you still do, darling, I assure you," She told him firmly. "One thing that I can definitely say for Connie at the moment, is that I couldn't even think of looking to her for any kind of emotional security, because she simply isn't stable enough to provide it. That is one thing that I currently give her without any possibility of receiving, and the only reason I am in a position to do that, is because you and I give that to each other in equal amounts. Now, am I right?"

"Yes," John told her, looking somewhat relieved. Picking up the tray containing the turkey which was now really quite heavy, he took it out to the garage, thinking that as he had known George for thirty years now, their relationship would obviously have changed over that time, even had they remained together and happy during the intervening years, which of course they hadn't. So, if George felt secure in the love she felt for and received from him, and was able to gather some much needed freedom from her liaison with Connie, then he was happy for her.

Going back into the kitchen, he said,

"Why don't you take a break for a while?" Glancing at the clock to see it was nearing four o'clock, George agreed, following him into the lounge.

"Mum, don't look," Charlie said, hurriedly hiding her mother's present under a sheet of wrapping paper.

"I'm not looking," George assured her, moving passed the table and towards the sofa. But before she could reach it, John's arms came round her again, turning her to face him, and catching her under the bunch of mistletoe he had insisted on hanging the previous weekend. "You never miss an opportunity, do you?" She said as he bent to kiss her.

"Would you expect any different of me?" He asked silkily, revelling in having her close to him like this.

"But of course not," She replied, smiling up at him. They both seemed to forget their audience as they continued softly kissing, but at a sound of disgust from Charlie, John turned to face her, still holding George possessively in the grasp of his left arm.

"Don't you like knowing that I love your mother?" He asked her as she tore some sellotape from the roll.

"Knowing it, I am really quite happy with," Charlie told him. "But I really don't want to see it." At John's look of total incomprehension, Charlie appealed to her mother. "Mum, what if you saw Granddad being like that with someone?" George looked utterly appalled.

"Oh god," She said, immediately moving away from John. "That would be utterly bizarre." Sitting down on the sofa, she reached for her cigarettes.

"Mum, do you have to?" Charlie almost whined.

"It's my bloody house!" George replied, the cigarette clamped between her lips as she lit it. "Besides," She said after taking a long and satisfying drag. "My cigarettes are nothing compared to Daddy's."

"Well, at least it might put Dad off trying to snog you at every given opportunity," Charlie said, getting up to put George's present under the tree with the others. John laughed.

"It never has so far," He replied, winking at George, both of them highly amused by Charlie's discomfort.

"I don't want to know," Charlie told them, screwing up her face in disgust. "I'm taking Mimi for a walk," She said, "and I don't expect to find any scenes of middle-aged debauchery when I get back."

When George had stubbed out her cigarette, John sat down next to her on the sofa and put his arms around her.

"I do love you," he said into her hair.

"I love you too," She said, fondly kissing his cheek. "You've been extremely demonstrative today," She said after a while of contented silence.

"I'm very happy," He told her simply.

"So I can assume that your evening with Jo was somewhat successful?"

"Very much so," He said with a soft smile.

"Good. It's about time that you and she were back on track."

"I would very much like the pleasure of both your company on New Year's Eve," He said, a little hesitant as he wondered what reaction this statement would garner.

"I don't see why not," George told him. Then, because she could see the question in his eyes, she said, "It's Jo who may find some difficulty in both of us making love to you as we have before, not me, John."

"Is that what she said?"

"No, in fact she said the exact opposite. But knowing Jo as I do, I think she may find it a little more daunting than she thinks she will. What you certainly shouldn't expect is for Jo to even consider doing anything in that way for me. I don't expect it and you shouldn't either." Moving slightly back from her so that he could look deep into her eyes, John asked,

"And how do you feel about making love to Jo?" George thought about this for a while.

"If that is something both you and she want from me, then I don't think I would have a problem with it. Let's face it, darling, there isn't much I wouldn't do to make you happy." John felt immensely touched as she said this, seeing the sincerity in her eyes to clarify her words.

"What did I ever do to deserve you?" He said softly, holding her even closer to him.

"Committed an act of high treason in a previous life, I suspect," She told him drily to cover up her pleasure at the obvious feeling he had for her.

When Charlie returned, she found her mother alone and chopping the ingredients for a salad, and her father nowhere to be seen.

"Where's Dad?" Charlie said, coming into the kitchen.

"He's gone out to get some more logs for the fire," George told her. "Will you do me a favour," George asked, "And grate the carrot and the onion for the coleslaw?"

"Yeah, sure," Charlie agreed, washing her hands at the sink and getting a grater and a bowl out of the cupboard. "Mum," Charlie said after beginning to grate the carrot. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course," George replied, glancing over her shoulder to give her daughter an encouraging smile, because she could feel the weight of what she thought Charlie was about to say.

"This thing with Connie Beauchamp, what are you going to do if she's found guilty?"

"I know that she didn't do it, Charlie," George told her quietly but firmly. "And if the jury don't agree with me, then I will fight for her appeal for as long as it takes."

"Mum, how come you're only now…?" Charlie stopped, not entirely sure how to phrase what she wanted to ask.

"Sleeping with women?" George finished for her, keeping her back to Charlie to save her obvious embarrassment.

"Yeah," Charlie agreed, blushing slightly. Turning to face her daughter, George said,

"Charlie, look at me." When Charlie raised her eyes to meet her mother's, George said, "I don't mind you wanting to know about this, so anything you want to ask, feel free. I can't promise that I will always give you the answers you want to hear, but I will try."

"Okay," Charlie replied a little challengingly. "So why now? I mean why not when you were younger?"

"Mostly lack of opportunity," George told her candidly. "And until Daddy stumbled on it of his own accord, I honestly didn't know how he would react to it."

"Dad said there was someone before Jo."

"Yes," George replied, turning back to finish preparing the salad. "Karen, Karen Betts, Governor of Larkhall prison."

"I think I've met her," Charlie said thinking back. "I think I've seen her with Dad a couple of times."

"She and your father built up a friendship quite a while before she and I got together." Charlie suddenly gasped.

"She was in the paper, not this summer but the one before, because…" Charlie stopped, apparently remembering why.

"Because her son killed himself," George finished for her.

"Yeah," Charlie said, remembering the weekend at the end of July the year before when her parents had come to see her unexpectedly. They worked in companionable silence until they heard John return with the logs, depositing them in the garage before coming in through the back door. Mimi barked and began running round his feet, delighted to see her master again. As he ruffled Charlie's hair and kissed George in greeting, John felt that all was right with the world. Here he was with his daughter and the woman he had loved for nigh on thirty years. They would be joined later on by George's father, a man whom John had always admired and respected. They had plenty to eat and drink, and he couldn't foresee anything that might spoil the feeling of warmth that permeated the entire house.

After putting the covered bowls of salad and coleslaw into the fridge and tidying up the kitchen, George went upstairs for a bath.

"Do you want a drink?" John called after her.

"A large martini please," She replied, thinking that a soak in a hot bath with a large drink would do her all the good in the world. When she was reclining in the hot scented water, Charlie appeared with a glass full of clinking ice and George's favourite tipple.

"Thank you," George said, taking it from her. Charlie had half turned to walk away when they heard the sound of George's mobile ringing from where it lay on her dressing-table.

"Do you want me to get it?" Charlie asked.

"Yes please," George replied, wondering who on earth would be ringing her mobile instead of ringing her at home.

"It's Connie," Charlie said, smirking as she handed the phone to her mother and leaving her to it. Smiling a thank you at her, George answered it.

"You've got good timing," She told Connie in greeting.

"That's always good to know," Connie said, sounding cheerful.

"I'm lying in the bath with a large drink, having just prepared enough food to feed an army. Though if John keeps on stealing the cheese straws, there won't be any left by the time I get down stairs." Connie laughed.

"I bet he's been trying to distract you all day."

"How did you guess," George said dryly. "He hasn't been able to keep his hands off me all afternoon. Sorry," She said, suddenly thinking that Connie really wouldn't want to know this.

"Don't apologise," Connie reassured her. "I have no objection to hearing about John, you know I don't."

"I'm never entirely sure of the etiquette of discussing one's ex-husband now lover, with one's other lover."

"I like that," Connie said, clearly with a smile in her voice.

"What?"

"That you refer to me as your lover."

"Well, that is what I think of you as," George told her honestly.

"You know I can just picture you as you are now," Connie said, an idea gradually forming in her mind.

"Oh yes?" George encouraged her.

"Hmm," Connie replied thoughtfully. "Reclining in a scented bubble bath, the bubbles only allowing a tantalising glimpse of your beautiful body."

"And how often do I have to tell you that my body really isn't beautiful?" George replied, though feeling the beginnings of arousal at Connie's words.

"I think we will have to agree to disagree on that particular issue," Connie told her. "Because I do think you're beautiful. Now, assuming you have your phone in your left hand, cup your breast in your right. You know how much I enjoy touching you, sliding my hands over your silky soft skin."

"Jesus, Connie, do you have any idea what you're doing to me?" George asked, her breathing slightly quickening.

"Of course I do," Connie told her smugly. "That's why I'm doing it. Now, seeing as I can't do it myself, run your thumb over your nipple for me."

"Connie…." George said, knowing she should stop this now.

"Just do it," Connie cajoled, "Trust me, you'll enjoy it."

"That's the problem," George told her, after sucking in a breath of suppressed ardour, "I'm enjoying it far too much."

"You can never get too much enjoyment out of something like this," Connie assured her. "Tell me how you feel. Tell me how hard and erect your nipple is." George laughed to cover a gasp of pleasure.

"If I didn't think I was in serious danger of being overheard, then I might," She told Connie firmly. "But even if I wasn't, I would probably have to be considerably less sober than I am now to say everything I'm actually thinking."

"George, you don't need to hide anything from me," Connie told her sincerely. "Neither do you have to use alcohol or dope as an excuse for saying whatever you want to say with me." After taking a swig of her drink and putting it back down on the corner of the bath, George said,

"Connie, if I ever told you some of the things that I would like very much for you to do to me and say to me, believe me, you really would run a mile."

"Sweetheart, you don't know that," Connie replied gently, realising that they had finally run up against something with which George needed some support instead of her. "Just let me remind you of something," Connie said when George maintained her stony silence. "The night we shared a joint, did I object when you confessed a wish that I could, in your own words, fuck you like John does? No, I didn't. I did in fact suggest a way that this could be accomplished. You may like to believe that you said that because you were ever so slightly stoned, but I think we both know better than that. You said it because at that particular moment in time, it was what you thought, it was what you wanted. All the dope did was remove the inhibition which would usually have suppressed such a wish."

"I'm sorry," George said, feeling thoroughly stupid.

"Don't be sorry," Connie told her. "Because you have nothing to be sorry for. This is just something we obviously need to explore a lot further, that's all."

"I wish you were here," George said into the resulting silence, suddenly realising just how true this statement was.

"You wouldn't be getting out of that bath unscathed if I was," Connie promised her, sensing George's dampened mood and wanting to lighten it again.

"Others before you have been in this bath, you know." Connie laughed, happy to hear some regained confidence in George's voice.

"I don't doubt it," She replied, and hoping one day soon to be the next.

When George reappeared down stairs, she found John sitting alone by the fire, with a glass of wine to hand and reading the paper.

"Where's Charlie?" She asked, putting her still half filled glass down on the coffee table.

"She's in the shower," John said, folding the paper and looking over at her. "Are you all right?" He asked, seeing the slight sheen in her eyes that in spite of the make up she'd applied, told him she'd been crying.

"Fine, thank you," George replied, lighting a cigarette. She had always hidden behind this old familiar barrier, and the tight little voice with which she'd answered his question told him in no uncertain terms that all definitely wasn't right.

"Charlie said that you had a phone call from Connie."

"I did," George replied, not telling him any more than this.

"Come on, darling," John said, gently encouraging her. "You might as well talk to me as anyone else." Blowing a disconsolate smoke ring up at the ceiling, George shrugged, acknowledging the truth of his words.

"She almost talked me into having phone sex with her whilst I was in the bath." She watched a little sardonically as John's eyes widened and his lips twitched up in a smile, before he forced his face back into an open noncommittal expression.

"I wouldn't have thought such a thing would make you cry."

"No, you wouldn't, would you," She said, clearly utterly disgusted with herself.

"Care to tell me why it did?" He enquired, without the remotest suggestion of pressure for her to tell him. Lifting her eyes to the ceiling, above part of which was one end of Charlie's bedroom and where she could hear Charlie moving about, George said,

"We shouldn't be discussing this now."

"Okay," John agreed, unfortunately seeing the sense in her words. Then, whilst he still had time, he moved over to the sofa and sat down beside her, plucking the cigarette from her hand and stubbing it out in the ashtray. When he put his arms round her and turned her to face him, he could feel the unresolved tension thrumming along her veins. "You're very tense," he said, gently kissing her and realising that he was clearly stating the bloody obvious.

"Yes, well, that's what unsatisfied lust does to me, you know that," She told him a little caustically.

"Is that what upset you?" He asked, though not entirely believing this.

"No of course not!" She insisted vehemently. "Well, not really," She conceded more calmly. "John, you know I've never been very good at actually saying what I really want in that way."

"And Connie is?" he said, softly stroking her cheek.

"Yes," George told him a little regretfully. "She's sometimes better at interpreting what I'm thinking in that respect than I am. I understand why. Let's face it, anyone would be good at working out what the person they were sleeping with wanted in a sexual context if they'd done what she did for the best part of a year…" She stopped, gaping at John in complete and total shock. What had she done? A look of horror rapidly suffused her face as she realised that this wasn't just John she was talking to, this was one of Connie's trial judges, and she had all but told him that Connie used to be a prostitute. "Fucking hell," She said, immediately pulling herself out of John's embrace, wishing desperately that she could rewind the last ten minutes.

"What are you saying?" John asked, his voice suddenly wary.

"Think about it," George told him dismally as she stood up and moved towards the kitchen to replenish her glass with ice. "You'll work it out soon enough."

Both John and George kept up a façade of normality throughout the evening, though George occasionally observed John slipping off into his own little world of obviously dark thoughts. She was relieved to see that neither her father nor Charlie appeared to notice his often quiet demeanour, though she couldn't say the same for herself. She knew that he was trying to work out the puzzle she had so thoughtlessly given him and at one point, when her father and Charlie were discussing a recent case that Charlie had defended, she saw John suck in a breath of revelation, his eyes slightly widening and his face temporarily losing some of its colour. When they all eventually made their way up to bed around eleven o'clock, George knew that sleep wouldn't provide her with the immediate reprieve that she needed. John would want answers, and knowing John he would want them now. They didn't speak as they prepared for bed, the tightly closed door of their bedroom cutting them off from the other two occupants of the house, Charlie in the bedroom that had been hers since her childhood and George's father in the spare bedroom. George and John moved around each other, both submerged in their own thoughts, but as George slid under the duvet as she listened to John cleaning his teeth in the en suite, she felt suddenly cold, a shiver running over her as though someone had just walked over her grave. When John joined her in bed, he lay there for a while, allowing the silence to get ever thicker before asking,

"So, just how old was Connie when she began sleeping with men for money?"

"Fifteen," George told him. "She was only just sixteen when she picked up a caution for soliciting, along with a caution for possession of cannabis. Had she been under sixteen, she would have been given over to the social services, but she wasn't, so they let her go." John had winced when George had told him how old Connie had been, and now he just looked sad.

"I was already a father when she began doing that," he said into the silence, this thought clearly appalling him deeply.

"Yes, and I was already a mother," George said, thoroughly understanding what he was feeling. "And that isn't all. At some point during that year, she had a baby, probably fathered by one of her clients, though I don't know that for certain. Connie doesn't know that I know about her baby, and until she decides to tell me herself, or until Brian Cantwell brings it up in court, that's how it needs to stay. The only reason I do know about it, is because Larkhall's doctor discovered evidence of Connie's previous pregnancy when she was there, and Connie did once refer to something that she was particularly ashamed of that happened when she was sixteen. As to what happened to her baby, I don't yet know, but I've got Yvonne working on it."

"Wouldn't it just be simpler to tell her what you now know?" John suggested quietly.

"Do you have any idea how much reassurance it took for me to cajole the information about the two cautions out of her?" George demanded, trying to keep her voice lowered so as not to broadcast their discussion to Charlie whose bedroom was next door. "She doesn't trust anyone, John, not with anything that might make her remotely vulnerable. For as long as possible I need her to trust me. That's the only way this trial has a chance of being successful, you know that. Cantwell won't bring any of this out until after I've questioned her in front of the jury, by which time Connie will have done everything she can to sway them. If she gets the slightest feeling that I've broken her trust before I get her on the stand, I may as well not bother."

"And it hardly helps that you're sleeping with her, does it," John said disgustedly. "You know, I can't believe you still did that, knowing just how many men she must have had inside her during that time, and since."

"Don't you dare talk about her like that," George hissed, leaning over him with her hands flat on his chest. "Have you forgotten how many women you've fucked over the years, with just as little commitment or attention to detail?"

"At least I wasn't paying for it," John threw back at her, unwilling to admit that she may have had a point.

"I've no doubt that you usually paid to entertain all those women you used to pick up," George said, now really getting into her stride. "Whether that be in hotel or restaurant. Frankly, I'm not sure that there's really a difference." They lay in stony silence for some time, each of them mulling over what the other had said.

George had turned away from him, lying on her right side with her back to him, but she couldn't fall asleep. They had broken their golden rule, that arguments should be dealt with and then left outside the bedroom. They hadn't done that since the final days that had led to their marital breakup, and it deeply saddened George that they'd done it now. Having had some time to sort out his thoughts and to make an effort to calm down, John's thoughts seemed to join with hers. Moving towards her, he put his left arm over her waist.

"I'm sorry," He said, nestling his face in her hair.

"Are you?" She asked, clearly not believing him.

"Yes," He tried to assure her, mostly meaning it. No matter how bitterly angry he might have appeared, he was mainly worried for her and sad about Connie, but he hadn't meant to upset George in the way that he had.

"What for?" She asked, wanting him to at least try to justify his actions.

"For behaving like the archetypal caveman," He said, the honesty in his voice making her smile wanly.

"Do you mean that?" She asked, relaxing a little against him. "Or are you telling me what I would like to hear?"

"Both," John told her candidly. Turning over to face him, George snuggled deeper into his embrace, this telling him more than any words that he was at least partly forgiven. "Why did she do it?" John asked eventually.

"I don't rightly know," George told him, raising a hand to cover a yawn. "But I do have my suspicions, and I would give anything for them to be wrong."

"What?" John prompted her.

"Connie flinches, whenever I refer to my father as Daddy. I told her I'd noticed her doing that, and she didn't try to deny it."

"Oh god," John said, the pain etched in his face as he followed George's train of thought.

"Like I said, it's only a suspicion," George said, trying to lessen the blow.

"But it would explain the way she is with other men," John clarified, filling in some of the blanks for himself.

"When I was looking into her character in preparation for Barbara's trial," George told him. "The one thing that came up again and again about Connie, was her absolute desire for power over any men who crossed her path."

"I may have summoned her to my chambers in February," John continued for her. "But she knew what she was there for from the word go. Knowing what I know and partially suspect about her now, that actually makes me feel quite ill."

"And that is precisely what I didn't want you to feel," George told him. "And you can bet your bloody life that Connie wouldn't want you to feel like that. John, Connie may have felt very guilty about sleeping with you in chambers in February, but she didn't really feel guilty for sleeping with you after your day of shadowing her, and she definitely enjoyed it. Please don't allow what you now know about her to change that. You certainly didn't feel that there was anything wrong in taking her home with you after your day under her thumb, so please don't start now under some misguided attempt of chivalry." Softly kissing her, John said,

"Why do you usually manage to talk some sense into me?"

"If I did, I would never have let that slip out the way it did earlier on," George told him ruefully.

"I did say usually," John said, smiling against her lips. "And I really am sorry."

"I half expected you to react like that," George found herself admitting. "And I have absolutely no doubt that we will have further disagreements about Connie until you get used to the idea of me being with her. We did over Karen, so we definitely will over Connie." John drew back from her, a sudden suspicion in his eyes.

"Let me guess," he said in slight disgust, though he couldn't quite disguise his grin. "She still smokes dope."

"Occasionally," George told him, not quite able to meet his eyes.

"Well, I hope she knows what she's in for if she shares it with you," He said, pulling George back to lie against him. "Those last few months of your final year of law school, when you used to occasionally smoke a joint on my balcony, it would always make you incredibly horny, to the point of even wearing me out." Then, as he nestled her head against his chest, he grew serious. "Just promise me to be careful. I don't want to see you in any trouble, legal or otherwise."

"I will, I promise," She said, briefly kissing his chest, and thinking that whilst he might be bitterly angry with her on occasion for either keeping things from him or making decisions that he thought unwise in the extreme, John always had her best interests at heart.


	81. Chapter 81

Part Eighty One

When George arrived on New Year's Eve, bearing the ingredients for the meal she would be cooking for the three of them, John took the Tesco's bags from her and put them down in the kitchen. Going back into the lounge, he put his arms round her. He hadn't seen much of her since Boxing Day, and he knew he had missed her. Although they had made up in a fashion in the early hours of Christmas morning, John knew that she didn't entirely feel at ease with him after their argument. John was well aware that this was mostly his fault, but he'd been so shocked by her revelations, and the combination of anger for Connie's situation and worry for George's involvement with her had caused him to behave really quite ridiculously. All he wanted to do now was to thoroughly make it up to her, in the way he knew best.

"I love you," He said, gently kissing her.

"I know you do," She said, a fond smile not quite reaching her eyes. "And I love you too, but if I could turn back the clock to before Christmas Eve I would do it in a heart beat."

"Does it matter to you so much that I know of Connie's past before her trial?"

"No, it matters little to me whether you know or not," She told him a little caustically. "What matters is that I feel as though I've broken her trust, and yes I do know just how ridiculous that sounds."

"You're very wound up today," He commented, his hands running familiarly over her back and shoulders.

"My body can't decide whether it wants you to screw the living daylights out of me, or whether it wants me to hide in your arms and cry. Sorry," She said, suddenly realising that her words had run away with her. Looking away from him, she desperately tried to think of something far less emotional to say. Lifting her chin with a finger, he encouraged her to meet his soft blue gaze.

"I don't want you to have to hide anything you feel from me," He told her quietly. "Whether that be physical, emotional, or anything in between. I love you, everything you feel and everything you are. Don't ever forget that." Drawing her even closer to him, he moved his hands down to begin massaging her lower back through her clothes. As she groaned at the heavenly feeling of his strong warm hands moving on her, soothing away the ache that this time of the month always gave her, she couldn't help but be thankful for the intuition that years of knowing her intimately had given him.

"I don't know if I'll be particularly good company for what you know doubt have planned for this evening," She said, leaning her face against his shoulder.

"That isn't just why I wanted both you and Jo here," He protested in mock outrage, making her smile.

"Of course not, darling," She said, languidly kissing him. "I'm just giving you prior warning, that's all."

"George, I really don't mind if we abandon the thought of making love whatsoever this evening, if that's what you would prefer."

"Certainly not," George protested, feeling somewhat humbled that he would do this for her, even though it was neither the first time nor would it be the last. "Just because you can't make love to me, doesn't mean I can't make love to you."

As she said this, they heard Jo's key in the front door.

"What was that about making love?" Jo asked, coming into the lounge with a warm smile on her face.

"I was just reassuring our lord and master here," George replied, turning slightly within John's embrace to face her. "That my unfortunately not being in any position to receive pleasure, doesn't preclude him, or you for that matter, from receiving it from me." Dropping a small overnight bag down in a corner, Jo moved over to them.

"That's up to you," She said, watching George's face, and thankfully seeing no hesitation in what George had said. Having George surrounded by his right arm, John put his left out to Jo, pulling her close to him and kissing her.

"That's what I like most," he said, softly switching his gaze between the two of them. "Having both of you close to me like this, in whatever capacity," he finished a little more firmly, insuring that he wasn't asking anything of either of them that they didn't feel able to give. After a long comfortable silence, George said,

"I'd better start thinking about dinner."

"What are you cooking?" Jo asked, thinking that it really was some considerable time since she'd eaten any of George's delicious creations.

"John requested Kedgeree," George replied, giving him a fond smile. "So Kedgeree it is. In fact, you can give me a hand, and John, you can take your wayward animal out for a walk round the block." Recognising that there was obviously something George wanted to discuss with Jo without his being present, John acquiesced, waving a lead at a delighted Mimi, and leaving Jo and George alone in his flat.

Following George into the kitchen as John went out the front door, she watched as George retrieved smoked haddock, eggs, an onion, rice and fresh parsley from a bag, placing them on one of the kitchen units. As George put on a saucepan of water to hard-boil three eggs, Jo said,

"So, what did you want to say that you didn't want John to hear?"

"Was it quite that obvious?" George replied, glancing at her over her shoulder.

"Only a little," Jo reassured her. "I assume it's about what may or may not happen later on?" Placing the three eggs in the saucepan, George turned to face her.

"I think I need to know what you want from me," George told her succinctly.

"You mean, when we're with John?" Jo asked, admiring George's candidness.

"Yes," George replied, turning back to the cooking, feeling that Jo might find it easier if she didn't have to look at her. "I need to know precisely what you expect to happen between us." Hearing Jo taking a seat at the kitchen table, George put the one and a half pounds of smoked haddock fillets into a saucepan, covering them with a pint of cold water. Bringing them to the boil, she put on a lid and allowed them to simmer, still waiting for Jo's obviously well thought out response.

"George, I don't expect anything from you," Jo eventually told her. "I don't expect anything because expect really is the wrong word. What I would like from you, is whatever you want to give me, and if you don't, then that is entirely understandable and really not a problem."

"Jo, that really isn't an answer," George replied, her mood clearly fluctuating between miserable and frustrated.

"Come and sit down," Jo said quietly, wanting George not to have any excuse to divert her attention elsewhere.

"I can't," George said a little sharply, "I've got to do this."

"From what I can remember of that recipe," Jo told her with a slight smile. "The haddock has to simmer for at least eight minutes, so sit down." Slumping into a chair at the table opposite Jo, George felt the insane desire to just lean her head on her arms and cry. She hadn't slept particularly well since the argument she'd had with John on Christmas Eve, and it was all beginning to catch up with her.

"You're looking very tired," Jo told her gently.

"I am," George replied miserably. "All I really want to do this evening is to go home and go to sleep, preferably after a very hot bath, because I just can't seem to get warm." Reaching across the table, Jo took George's hands in hers, gently chafing them between her own.

"So why don't you do that?" She asked, thinking this to be an obvious question.

"I have something to make up to John for," George said, refusing to meet Jo's eyes. "Something that I'm not going to discuss with you. Suffice it to say that on Christmas Eve, I gave him a further, fairly enormous reason for being angry with me for a course of action I am currently following. We have verbally sorted things out, but physically, there hasn't really been the opportunity. I thought that this evening would provide that opportunity, but my slightly unpredictable hormones decided otherwise. Still, that won't prevent me from giving him what he doesn't often receive."

"George!" Jo exclaimed, not remotely amused by George's flippant attitude. "You don't have to give John head to completion as a way to apologise."

"It's always worked in the past," George responded glibly, briefly thinking that she was getting more and more like Connie by the day.

"And you certainly don't have to do that for me," Jo told her quietly but firmly.

"And I thought that was the one thing you used to like about our being together," George said dismally.

"I did," Jo insisted. "And if it ever happens again, I will, but that puts you under absolutely no obligation to do that, for John or for me, in whatever circumstance. Don't ever think that John would want you to perform any sexual act, just because you feel you are in the wrong about something, which when I arrived, John certainly didn't appear to think you were."

"I do want to make love to you, you know," George said after a long and thoughtful pause, realising just how true this was, in spite of her growing relationship with Connie. Simply abandoning things with Jo simply wasn't possible, because of John, and because of how much he truly loved seeing them together.

"Who for?" Jo asked, having observed how much thought had gone into George's statement.

"For John mostly," George replied candidly. "He would sorely miss seeing you and I together, but it's not only because of John. I may have felt somewhat sexually unfulfilled by what you and I had, but that certainly wasn't your fault and it wasn't mine. But I did enjoy giving you pleasure. I wouldn't ever want you to think otherwise. When you originally told us about your affair with Tom, what I said was well, unforgivable."

"No, it wasn't," Jo told her gently. "You were quite rightly very angry. You were quite correct in assuming that I would never sleep with another woman, because I don't honestly think I could. You are very special to me, George, and that means that I want you to be happy. You weren't happy with me, and I think I knew that, quite a while before I began sleeping with Tom. You and I hadn't made love since before my overdose, and I knew that I wouldn't ever be able to offer you what you really needed. So, if you can find in someone else what you didn't find with me, then I think you should, if you haven't already." Her eyes widening, George stared at Jo, a slight blush rising to her cheeks.

"How did you know?" George asked, praying with all her might that Jo didn't know the identity of her new lover.

"When I came to see you, to apologise for slapping you," Jo explained. "I couldn't escape the feeling that there was something that you weren't telling me, something fairly significant. So, do I know her?"

"In a manner of speaking," George replied guardedly. "And for now, that's all you need to know, because I really don't want to start another argument."

"I hope she makes you happy," Jo said quietly, as full of emotion as she could see that George was. Jo was obviously curious about who George's new lover was, but that wasn't an immediate concern.

"Please don't be so nice to me," George said a little helplessly, the tears finally flowing down her cheeks. "I was horrible to you the last time I saw you."

"That's because you were trying to make sure I was coming back to John for all the right reasons," Jo said, getting up from her chair and moving round the table towards George. "Your hackles were up because you were guarding against anything or anyone that went against his best interests. What's wrong with that?" Gently pulling George up from her chair, Jo held her close, the two women fitting together as they once had done, four hands seeking out familiar positions.

"Do you really think we still can make love to John together, as we used to?" George asked, her brief tears having mostly dried.

"I think we can certainly try," Jo attempted to reassure her. When their lips eventually met, it was both a shock and yet no surprise to both of them. They had known it would happen at some point, but to feel the familiar delicate contours of each other's mouths was like exploring old territory with a totally different goal in mind. Jo knew that she was in a way treading on another woman's toes in kissing George, and yet she didn't feel anything wrong in doing this. Both she and George would try to maintain their friendship and their fondness for each other because of John, so that they could still love him as one entity, as the two-part unit of physical love and emotional strength that he needed to hold him together. George on the other hand, knew that whilst some might consider her kissing Jo to be a betrayal of her growing connection with Connie, Connie wouldn't be one of them. Connie understood her relationship with John, and how Jo fitted into that set up. But now that she knew that she could in all conscience, both pursue her relationship with Connie, and continue to love John both with and without Jo, George felt a little less caged, both with the maelstrom of feelings that almost seemed to swamp her on a daily basis, and with the future exploration of her sexuality that being with Connie would provide.


	82. Chapter 82

A/N: I'm sorry I haven't written for quite a long time, but I have been rreally quite ill over the last year, and have had to start dialysis again. Let's hope that writing this scene has got me back into the swing of it.

The Italian lines come from Mozart's The Marriage of Figaro.

Part Eighty Two

On Saturday the thirteenth of January, two days before the beginning of Connie's trial, Connie cooked dinner for George. She explained it by saying it was a sort of thank you for what was to come, just in case she didn't get the chance to say it afterwards. George told her that this was particularly pessimistic, but she nevertheless thought it would be wonderful to spend one last night with Connie before the world and his wife encroached far too precipitately on their lives. George was also intrigued at the thought of sampling Connie's cooking. John had told her that Connie had a creative flare when she was in theatre, something which George assumed would be easily transferred to her kitchen.

When Connie opened the door to George not long after seven, she smiled broadly at her.

"You look pleased with yourself," George told her, moving into the hall and holding out a bag containing two bottles of Chablis.

"If I forget about the next two weeks and what might happen at the end of them," Connie replied, "I can actually feel really quite happy."

"And I will do everything I can to make sure you can continue to feel happy after the next two weeks, I promise," George said, leaning forward to kiss Connie deeply. Connie felt incredibly touched by George's words, knowing that they came straight from her heart. When they eventually came up for air, Connie said,

"I'd better put these in the fridge," Gesturing to the bottles of Chablis she held in her left hand. "Would you like something while they're chilling?"

"I wouldn't say no to a dry Martini," George replied, leaving her handbag on the chair in the hall. Connie had The Marriage of Figaro playing on the stereo in the lounge and when she'd poured a Martini for George and a scotch for herself, she began preparing the butter for the starter.

"This might look like a very simple dish," She said as she melted an ounce of butter, and added the juice and the grated zest from half a lemon, together with some roughly chopped parsley. "But it's definitely one of my favourites."

"It's a very long time since I've eaten crab," George said appreciatively, glancing at the pack of fresh fish on the worktop.

"Well, I thought we both deserved something special this evening," Connie replied, switching the oven on to preheat.

"Before the next two weeks is entirely forgotten," George said, regretfully bringing them back to the business in hand. "There's something I need to do before Monday. I need to take your passport away from you."

"Why, do they think I'm really going to do a runner at this stage?"

"In a word, yes," George told her. "It's simply a precaution to remove that particular temptation."

"Fine," Connie replied a little belligerently, banging the wooden spatula that she'd been using to stir the contents of the saucepan down on the chopping board and switching off the cooker. "Come on, you may as well observe me retrieving it from my safe, so that you can verify that it is the only passport I possess."

"Connie, please don't be angry with me," George asked her quietly, following her across the hall and into the study. "I didn't write the rules."

"I know, I'm sorry," Connie relented. "And don't think I didn't consider doing a runner when I was first in Larkhall, because I did."

"What convinced you otherwise?" George asked, genuinely interested.

"Denny," Connie replied with a smile. "She told me about the numerous escape attempts that had been made over the years. I couldn't quite prevent myself from being extremely envious of her achievement of getting as far as Spain for a good few months. But then I thought that if I did somehow manage to get out of that hell hole, which wouldn't have been easy by any means, I wouldn't ever be able to clear my name, or prove that Will Curtis was the murdering bastard everyone was looking for."

"I am sincerely proud of you for sticking it out as long as you did," George told her, meaning every word. Moving over to the safe on the wall, Connie said,

"I wouldn't have survived it if I hadn't made a few friends. I don't know what you said to Denny, or for that matter how you said it, but she virtually appointed herself my body guard."

"That first time I came to see you," George told her, unintentionally watching as Connie punched in the code to her safe, "And I accompanied you back to your cell? Well, when I left you, I met Denny on the stairs, and she told me what Al McKenzie and Natalie Buxton had tried to do to you. I gave her the packet of cigarettes I had on me at the time, and I asked her to keep an eye on you. So, to make sure that she really did keep an eye on you, I kept her in cigarettes until you were released. I'm pleased to know that she fulfilled her side of the bargain."

"You didn't have to do that, but thank you," Connie said as she handed over her passport. "If I'd known, I wouldn't have picked the one time she wasn't there to start a fight with Natalie Buxton."

"Just what did you say to her to make her do what she did?"

"She accused me of screwing my lawyer, which as it happens I wasn't at the time, so I slapped her face and told her that it was far better to be a tart than a nonce." George winced. "Yeah, I know, stupid, really stupid," Connie continued. "But there you are, there's some that you can ignore, and some that wind you up from the word go, and she was one of those. I haven't had a fight like that since, well, since I was trying to keep out of the way of the likes of her just to earn a living."

When they returned to the kitchen, Connie switched the hob back on and asked George to carry on stirring the butter for her so that it didn't catch. Meanwhile, Connie removed the stalks from six large cup mushrooms, before washing them and patting them dry with kitchen roll. Then, opening the packet of prepared crab meat, she began stuffing the mushrooms, finishing them off with a very fine grating of fresh parmesan cheese. Retrieving two small fireproof dishes, Connie took the saucepan from George, and half filled each dish with the lemon and parsley butter, putting half a peeled garlic clove into each, before carefully sitting the stuffed mushrooms to floating in the fragrant butter. She then half filled a roasting tin with hot water, sitting the two fireproof dishes on the surface of the water before putting the roasting tin in the oven.

"That's definitely something I've never thought of doing," George said with a smile.

"I can't really take credit for it I'm afraid," Connie admitted sheepishly. "It's just one of the utterly delicious starters served by my favourite Italian restaurant. I talked the chef into giving me the recipe."

When the starter had been put into the oven, Connie took yet more fish out of the fridge.

"Is that what I think it is?" George asked, her eyes widening in delight.

"Dover Sole in the flesh," Connie confirmed, putting it onto the chopping board, before removing a long knife from the block near the kettle and a steel from the cutlery drawer. As she whipped the knife back and forth across the steel, George couldn't help but feel a tingling at her centre.

"You're smirking," Connie observed, watching George from where she stood across the kitchen table from her.

"Try watching yourself doing that in the mirror, and you'll see just how wickedly sexy that actually is." Putting the steel away, Connie laughed.

"You should see me with a scalpel," Connie told her, beginning to carefully slice the two fillets of Dover Sole in half so that they opened lengthways, providing a pocket.

"John did tell me that it's definitely a sight to see," George replied, her appetite increasing as she watched Connie stuffing each fillet with a mixture of fresh mussels and fresh peeled prawns.

"The day I played Tom and Zubin that recording of The Creation, I found myself at one point conducting to it with a scalpel." After placing the two fillets of Dover Sole onto a foiled tray, she brushed each of them with the left-over lemon and parsley butter, before putting them in the oven, at the same time removing the roasting tin containing the two fireproof dishes.

"Would you open a bottle of the Chablis for me?" She asked George, turning the oven down so that the Sole didn't cook too quickly whilst they were eating. As George uncorked the wine and poured them each a glass, Connie put each dish of crab filled mushrooms onto a plate with some crusty bread to mop up the juices.

"To success," George said, clinking her glass with Connie's.

"Let's hope so," Connie replied, before taking a sip of the beautifully smooth chilled white wine.

At the first taste of the combination of the soft, moist crab meat, together with the firm mushroom and fragrant butter, George groaned in ecstasy.

"I take it that meets with your approval?" Connie said with a smile.

"Definitely," George told her. "It's utterly divine."

"So," Connie said after a few moments' contented eating. "Tell me precisely what will happen this week."

"Well," George began after taking a drink from her wine. "Tomorrow morning will be a matter of confirming your plea, selecting and swearing in the jury. Now, under the highly unlikely event that you recognise any of them, you must, I repeat must tell me, so that they can be removed and replaced with someone else. Then hopefully if there's time, both Brian Cantwell and I will give our opening speeches. Connie, one thing I must impress on you, is that under no circumstances whatsoever should you verbally react to anything you hear during your trial. You are definitely going to hear things said about you that you will want to vehemently disagree with, but that is my job to do, not yours. Jo could easily have you removed from court if you do say anything to try and contest something that a witness may say about you. If she has reason to do that, it won't help your case. The less you reveal of your reactions the better. You are perfectly capable of keeping your feelings hidden, and I urge you to do so in the coming two weeks."

"Do you really think that's how long it will take?"

"A fortnight is really only an estimate of how long your trial will take, but it's probably an accurate one. Tomorrow afternoon will probably bee Dr. Harry Cunningham's evidence, which I will inevitably contest as I don't honestly believe it to be remotely relevant because he didn't do the original post-mortem."

"But if Harry's post-mortem doesn't reveal anything, how can you possibly argue that Kay's does?"

"Because Kay is ten times more experienced than Harry, and because she is working for us, not the other side. Believe me, I'll only be doing what Brian Cantwell would do in my place. The order of witnesses after Dr. Cunningham is Will Curtis, then DI Archer, then Diane Lloyd."

"Which reminds me," Connie said with a thoughtful expression. "You never did tell me what you managed to get out of Ric that night you cooked dinner for him."

"He knows that you told me about what he did with Diane's credit card," George told her. Connie winced.

"You aren't seriously going to use that, are you?" Connie asked in dismay.

"Only if I absolutely have to," George assured her. "Ric is aware that I may have to use it, to discredit Diane's professional and personal judgement, but whether I do or don't use it really depends on how she reacts to my cross-examination. For her evidence about you to be either dismissed or at the very least discredited by the jury, I need to make her look a fool. Ric gave me enough on her to hopefully do that."

"I didn't really take much notice of it at the time," Connie said contemplatively. "But the next day, when he took me home from the Hadlington, he was very quiet, as though you'd given him a lot to think about."

"Connie, I found out quite a lot about Ric that night, some of which I don't think you are aware of. I don't intend to break that confidence as it isn't remotely relevant to your case."

"Okay," Connie replied, "He was just a bit subdued, that's all." George wasn't surprised to hear this, because Ric clearly hadn't planned to tell her about his near miss with Kelly York, something that George would take with her to the grave if necessary.

When Connie served the stuffed Dover Sole, it was placed on a bed of sautéed courgette ribbons and spinach.

"This looks delicious," George said, picking up her knife and fork as Connie refilled their glasses. Then, after taking a mouthful, the look of utter bliss on her face told Connie that it definitely tasted just as good as it looked. After some considerable silence, with no sound but clinking cutlery and the music drifting in from the lounge, George said, "One thing I will tell you, is that Ric did ask, would he learn things at your trial that he perhaps didn't want to learn. I did of course tell him that yes, there would undoubtedly be things discussed that he wouldn't want to know in a million years, but that was all. It isn't in any way my place to tell him about your past. Only you can do that, though I do urge you to do it before Friday, as I suspect that is when the prosecution will begin questioning you directly. Cantwell isn't likely to mince his words. He never has before and I don't think he ever will."

"And just what am I supposed to say," Connie demanded belligerently. "Oh, by the way I used to be a prostitute? That'll really go down well."

"A little preparation does go a long way, Connie," George told her gently, reaching out to lay a hand on Connie's. "An ounce of warning is always better than getting a shock like that all at once."

"No," Connie said tightly. "That's something I just can't bring myself to do. I am well aware that you're right, but I really can't do it."

"Connie, I'm not going to force you to do anything," George reassured her. "I am here to advise you and to act for you. I am not here to tell you how to live your life."

"Do you mind if we abandon the next fortnight as a topic of conversation?" Connie asked. "Only I'd far rather have something pleasant to think about tonight."

"Of course," George told her. "For numerous reasons, tonight is about you."

"No," Connie replied with a soft smile. "Tonight is about us."

The rest of their dinner held a far happier atmosphere, both of them wanting to put on hold the thought that this might be the last time they did such a thing together. A simple dessert of fresh strawberries and a little cream completed their meal, leaving them both at least culinarily satisfied. After stacking the dishes in the dishwasher, they took refilled glasses of Chablis into the lounge. As Connie relaxed back into the cushions of the sofa, she couldn't help thinking that in spite of the fact that she had a trial for murder hanging over her head, she certainly hadn't been this happy last year. Here she was, living in a beautiful house, with a fabulous career, and now with a sensationally attractive woman sitting at her side. This time last year, Connie knew that she never would have contemplated becoming involved with a woman. Yet now, she honestly couldn't say why she'd never thought of doing it before. George was extremely beautiful, utterly complex and, Connie suspected, just as sexually adventurous as she herself was.

"What are you smiling about?" George asked her, taking a sip of the wine and putting the glass down on the coffee-table.

"The fact that you're sitting here with me," Connie told her candidly. "And that unless something totally unforeseen happens, you will be going to sleep with me in my bed, hopefully after making glorious love. It just dawned on me that this time last year, I wouldn't ever have even thought about becoming involved with a woman."

"No, I know you wouldn't," George replied fondly, running a finger over the back of Connie's hand. "When I was digging around, trying to find out whatever I could about you before Barbara's trial, everything I found told me of a woman who slept with far too many men to hide the fact that she was, at least in her personal life, extremely unhappy."

"And would you still have ripped into me the way you did, if you hadn't caught me and John together the day before?" Connie asked, not denying George's previous assertion.

"Very likely, yes," George told her honestly. "Though perhaps not with quite so much vigour."

As George leaned forward to place her lips on Connie's, in the opera they were listening to, one song ended and another began.

"Do you know this?" Connie asked, suddenly wanting to hear the purity ofGeorge's voice.

"Well, I did once sing it at school," George replied, "so I might be able to remember the words."

"Sing it for me, please?" Connie asked her.

"All right," George agreed, "But I doubt it'll be perfect." Taking a sip of her wine to moisten her lips and throat, George picked up the remote control, moved the CD back to the beginning of the track and raised the volume a little.

"Voi che sapete,

che cosa è amor,

donne vedete,

s'io l'ho nel cor."

At the first exquisite sound emanating from George's mouth, Connie's whole body went still. The purity, the sheer clarity of George's voice was so beautiful that it at first made Connie unable to breathe. She couldn't believe that George was sat here, in her lounge and on her sofa, singing just for her.

"Quello ch'io provo,

vi ridirò;

è per me nuovo,

capir nol so."

There were only a couple of occasions when George slightly stumbled over the words, most of them being drawn out of her long-term memory with ease. Connie couldn't help but shiver as the incredibly sensuous words flowed over her, their meaning all too clear even if she didn't understand their actual translation. She knew that George was singing of love, of lust, and all the confusion that went with them. She was unconsciously singing of all the beautiful, wonderful, truly delicious things she wanted to do to Connie and of those she wanted Connie to do to her. This was sex portrayed by sound, lovemaking audibly displayed in all its glory.

When the song had finished, Connie just stared.

"Do you have any idea just how much of a turn on that was?" Connie said eventually.

"That's always good to know," George told her with a smile, moving along the sofa towards her.

"You're so beautiful," Connie said as their arms went around each other.

"So are you," George replied, her lips meeting Connie's in so far their most explosive exchange. "You're very tense," George said after a while, her hands sliding under the hem of Connie's top, coming into contact with Connie's deliciously soft skin.

"If I was a man," Connie said, her voice going deep and husky. "You'd be about to get the roughest sex I suspect you've ever had in your life."

"And is that what you'd want if I was a man?" George asked her, suddenly having an idea.

"You're not kidding," Connie replied between kisses.

"Then we'll just have to get your dildo out, won't we," George said, looking straight into Connie's violet eyes.

"I certainly don't need asking twice," Connie told her, getting up from the sofa and pulling George along with her.

They continued furiously kissing as they made their haphazard way up the stairs, both trying to remove as much of the other's clothing as possible. When the duvet was unceremoniously thrown back and they fell on the bed, hands traversed contours that were becoming ever more familiar.

"You're so wet," George said, slipping a hand between Connie's legs.

"That's you're doing," Connie told her a little breathlessly.

"My singing really did that?" George asked, her fingers skilfully moving over Connie's flesh.

"You and your singing," Connie corrected, seeking out the same pleasure points on George's body, wanting to maximise everything she did for this beautiful woman who had somehow crept right under her skin.

"So," George asked between kisses, "Where might I find this substitute cock?"

"Bedside drawer," Connie told her, watching in undisguised amazement as George removed her left hand from it's previous occupation, and sucked her fingers clean before leaning over Connie to reach the bedside cabinet. Not wanting to miss the opportunity, Connie took George's hips between her hands and moved her until they were lying skin to skin, pelvises neatly aligned.

"God, that feels good," Connie said, briefly wrapping her legs around George's.

"You'd like me to be able to fuck you right now, wouldn't you," George said, removing a fairly large purple dildo from the bedside drawer.

"Wouldn't I just," Connie confirmed, as George moved slightly to Connie's left to give her room to gently slide it home. The groan of pure ecstasy that came from Connie seemed to release any prior inhibition George had ever thought she'd had.

"If Ric was here," George said, wondering afterwards where all her words had come from. "Would you want this from him? Would you want his enormously hard cock thrusting deep inside you?"

"Yes," Connie was forced to admit, her voice sounding higher and more unsteady. "But I'd want you there too."

"You'd want you, me and Ric together?" George asked, the possibility exciting her deeply, especially now that Connie's right hand was again moving on and inside her.

"I think that would make all my dreams come true," Connie told her. "Do you think you'd do it?"

"I don't think it's me you'd have to persuade," George told her frankly.

"God, you're so fucking beautiful," Connie said, the feeling of what was moving inside her coupled with the delicious sensation of George's arousal beneath her hand, serving to make words erupt from her with no warning whatsoever.

"And you make me want to do things I haven't thought about in a long time," George found herself admitting, immediately provoking Connie's curiosity.

"Such as?" Connie queried, her orgasm gradually approaching as George continued to move the dildo inside her.

"That's not important right now," George replied a little self-consciously, knowing that her tongue was running away with her.

"I want you to be able to ask anything of me when we're in bed," Connie told her.

"Just as I want you to do," George agreed. "But I find it far easier to give than to ask."

"Will you suck my neck?" Connie asked her, and when George altered her position slightly and obliged, Connie let out a cry of sheer exultation. George was delighted to find Connie's neck so sensitive, loving the whimpers and quickened breathing she was hearing from her.

"Harder, please?" Connie all but begged, clearly meaning what George was doing with the dildo.

"I don't want to hurt you," George replied, her own orgasm also building.

"You won't," Connie assured her, briefly using her right hand to clutch George's wrist, showing her the level of force that she wanted. Feeling Connie's orgasm spiralling up from the depths of her, George allowed her teeth to graze Connie's neck, pushing Connie over the edge, a cry of "Fuck" being torn from Connie's lips on an exhalation of breath, her whole body shuddering as she crested the waves of ecstasy.

After taking a few moments to calm down slightly, Connie realised that George hadn't yet achieved her release.

"What would you like?" she asked, turning George to lie in the crook of her left arm. Without putting her wish into words, George gently removed the dildo from inside Connie, slipping it deftly inside herself. "You bad, bad girl," Connie told her with a smirk, turning onto her side in order to reach it with her right hand.

"Well, I thought that was what sex was at least partially about," George quipped back. "The sharing of bodily fluids." Connie laughed, before moving down to enclose George's nipple between her lips, provoking a cry of pure pleasure from both of them. Gently detaching her lips from George a while later, Connie looked up at her and said,

"I really do want you to be able to ask anything of me when we're like this, you know." George's body went suddenly still. Realising that she'd definitely hit a stumbling block, Connie gently withdrew the dildo from her and put it at the bottom of the bed out of their way, before turning George to face her and enclosing her in her arms. "Is this something we need to talk about?" Connie softly asked.

"Not right now it's not," George tried to assure her, but Connie simply raised an eyebrow. "There is something that I like, only very occasionally, but most of the time I would rather die than put it into words. It took me two years of being married to John to ask him for it, and I even had to get drunk to explain it to him that time, so that ought to tell you just how difficult it really is for me."

"I've almost certainly heard it before, you know," Connie tried to reassure her.

"The difference is that I'm not paying for it," George threw back at her, instantly regretting her so often treacherous mouth. "Oh god, Connie, I'm sorry."

"And that type of retort only tells me just how defensive you are about whatever it is," Connie responded, her eyes briefly showing the steely gaze that her colleagues were so used to seeing. "George, liking something a little off the beaten track does not make you in any way wrong."

"Saying something like that to you does though," George replied in utter contrition.

"And if we worried about every crass comment we made to each other," Connie told her philosophically, "You and I would never get anywhere." Putting her arms round her and kissing her, George said,

"I really am sorry."

"I know," Connie said kissing her back, contented to just lie there and hold her.

After some time of gentle cuddling, Connie asked,

"Do you still feel sexy?"

"Lying here with you like this," George responded with a smirk. "What do you think?"

"I'd better do something about that then, hadn't I," Connie replied, giving George one last hard kiss before deftly nibbling her way down George's chest and over her far too prominent ribs, briefly sparing a thought as to why George obviously ate so little. When she reached the top of George's thighs, she gently parted them and lay between them. At the first touch of Connie's lips on her delicate flesh, George gasped, thinking that she really must be in heaven. This was an entirely new experience for Connie, but she didn't let this put her off her stride. George's taste was different and yet at the same time familiar. Connie nearly laughed when she realised that George's essence tasted very similar to her own. Connie was somewhat tentative at first, but as George's enjoyment quite obviously increased, so did Connie's self-confidence.

"Why on earth haven't I done this before?" Connie asked a while later, briefly lifting her face from between George's legs.

"One might think you already had," George told her, running her fingers gently through Connie's hair. Slipping two fingers of her right hand inside George, Connie was gratified to hear the moan of pleasure that emanated from her. Adding a third finger to increase George's pleasure, Connie sealed her lips around George's clitoris and sucked hard. Emitting a cry of abandon, George knew that this was what she had been looking for in Jo, someone who would match her word for word and thrust for thrust. Well, she hadn't even come close to finding it in Jo, but just maybe she really had found it in Connie, someone who might not despise or criticise her for what she liked in bed. Her breath was coming faster and faster, all her muscles screwing up to that moment of tense, erotic flashover. The cry of "Connie", that erupted from her was music to Connie's ears, telling her far better than ordinary words just how successful she had been. Connie wasn't fool enough to think that her first attempt at giving head to a woman had been particularly good, but somehow she had really made George come, and that was all that mattered.

When Connie moved back up to the level of George's face, she saw that George was crying. Putting her arms round George, Connie gently kissed her.

"Hey, was it really that bad?" She asked with a smile.

"It was wonderful," George assured her with a watery smile of her own.

"George, even I know the difference between something I do well and something I do at beginner level," Connie said with a slight laugh.

"The fact that you did it at all was wonderful," George explained.

"Am I therefore to understand that Jo never did?" Connie asked gently, trying to feel her way through possibly forbidden subjects.

"It wasn't really her fault," George tried to defend Jo. "We just wanted different things out of a relationship, that's all. It's just so nice to feel equal again."

"Well, I do want a hell of a lot more practice," Connie said with a smirk.

"I'm hardly about to complain," George replied, her brief tears drying.

"Can I exact a promise from you?" Connie asked, her face turning serious.

"What?" George asked warily.

"If I'm found not guilty, will you tell me whatever it is that you occasionally like that you're so worried about?"

"That's devious," George told her, trying to buy herself some thinking time.

"And this is me you're talking too," Connie said smugly.

"All right," George said after a few moments' thought. "I can safely say I will heartily regret agreeing to this, but yes okay, if you are found not guilty, I will tell you, along with the other things I'm not remotely ashamed of."

"Good," Connie said, gently kissing her to seal the bargain. Slipping out of bed a little while later to wash the dildo and put it away, she returned to the comforting embrace of George's arms, pulling the duvet over them, enclosing them both in a haven from which she never wanted to leave.


	83. Chapter 83

**Part Eighty-Three **

Everything about the Old Bailey looked normal, or as normal as anything that the abnormal world of criminal courts ever could be as it wasn't a slice taken out of normal life. The average London citizen would drive down the wide street and, out of the corner of his eye, spot the grey vastness of the famous pile and drive on. Even the famous domed roof with the golden scales of justice perched on top of it couldn't be seen without deliberate effort and positioning.

Today was not an ordinary day for Jo Mills, evening before, she cursed her over-active imagination for separating herself from her much needed wasn't as if she would be mapping out what she would say the following day in her defence speech. It dawned on her that she would be responsible for shaping the cases presented by George who would be standing in her shoes and Brian Cantwell, the prosecuting barrister. She realised that the task before her was as arbitrator, not advocate and she would have to exercise a mixture of skills between forceful direction and tactful persuasion. All her past resentments of interfering judges, particularly John, started to come back to haunt her at the frustratingly mistimed hour of one a clock in the morning. Finally, when the alarm clock woke her up out of her deep sleep, her eyes were reluctant to open and her mind didn't want to slot into gear. All she wanted was to lie in bed for a couple of hours and potter around with a nice cup of tea. Cursing under her breath, her innate sense of duty told her that this was not her fate so she finally reached over and silenced that hated beeping sound.

Unbelievably, Jo presented herself at the entrance to the Old Bailey, smartly dressed in her best blue suit and formal white shirt and went through the security as Recorder Mills. For a fraction of a second, she went to turn to the locker room when suddenly, she realised that she should be headed for John's chambers. She permitted herself a brief smile as, this time, she had a legitimate claim on his space and time. Coope had made the necessary arrangements and her gown was hung on the stand next to the red robes that John occupied and her role was to work to both of them. Judging by the cautious look on Coope's face, Jo judged that she was going to have to adjust to the new situation. It didn't help make Jo's head feel any clearer.

John's unmistakeable tread was heard down the corridor and he swung into the chambers, looking revoltingly fresh-faced and relaxed. He took in Jo's tiredness straightaway and opted for being calm inducing and tactful.

"Before we look at the trial papers, do you want to join me for a cup of strong coffee? I find it does sharpen up the mind for the day," suggested John quietly.

"Thank you John," answered Jo, smiling gratefully.

Sitting together casually on the sofa, John came over as nothing other than a more experienced professional and this was sustained when they adjourned to John's desk and John brought out the copy of the trial documents.

"I know very well that you still have this lurking concern that I'll take over the trial. Believe me, I won't. What I thought I'd do is to have a chat about the conduct of the trial and make any general may take a completely different line and ignore everything I say. It's entirely up to you."

"You give me the benefit of your experience," Jo said immediately."I suspect that running a trial will feel different being up on the throne than when I've silently cursed you for sticking your oar in."

It was John's simplicity of style and the absence of intonations in his voice that persuaded Jo that he wasn't pulling a fast one. They were working away for ten minutes or so when Coope called out in their direction. As both automatically turned round, Jo caught sight of the robestand. She couldn't help bursting out laughing.

"That looks so ridiculously like Mr and Mrs Judge."

"That would suit Vera so well. She would love to don the black robes- and the black cap for that matter," laughed John shortly."How much she aspires to your present situation and how bitterly she regrets that capital punishment was done away with, years ago."

John had a nice satisfied feeling within him. This was the frame of mind he wanted to ease Jo into. When they were both dressed for the occasion, they felt the same sensations of heightened consciousness that any actor felt when he received the curtain call to be out on the stage in five minutes time, ready to deliver his lines. John let Jo take the lead and smiled gratefully at Coope for her patient tactfulness in dealing with this novel situation.

Meanwhile, Connie's taxi drove purposefully towards the Old Bailey, some inconsequential music on the car radio miraculously not disturbing her wiretaut nerves. She had made two resolutions when she was getting ready this morning. One was that she did not want, under any circumstances, the burden and responsibility of parking her car in a busy part of London. The other decision was that her makeup would be as perfect as she could make it and her outfit would be her favourite two piece dark skirt, only just above her knee, with matching smart jacket and white shirt. Somehow, the fit and feel of it felt right for her. As her taxi swung into the sidestreet that was, in reality, the front of the Old Bailey, she realised that she needed every artificial prop she could lay her hands on. By contrast, she'd been almost frighteningly blase last time she was giving evidence in a court of law. Then, she had never conceived that her professional identity could be stripped from her. For years, this had been part of her garb that she naturally assumed first thing in the morning and had never conceived of herself bearing without it. All her experiences of first being arrested, of then being incarcerated and finally being allowed to practice only told her that her reassumption of identity and authority in the world was only on loan. Her heart sank as she saw the lines of pressmen laid out before them with their cameras and handmikes. Suddenly the door was opened and Connie walked along that highwire, looking neither one way or the other, mouthing 'no comment' at the senseless questions. It was only towards the halfway point that Connie finally spotted George's concerned expression and her carefully groomed blond hair and she zeroed in on her. She was grateful to be taken under George's wing and the predatory nature of the press made her feel momentarily grateful that she was shut up in the fastness of the most famous, or infamous, court in the country.

"Now you've survived the press reptiles, you need to come with me to a witness room, just to go over what will happen today. You put yourself in my hands."

Connie dumbly followed the other woman's lead in a way that was unprecedented for her. It was alien to her philosophy to put herself in anyone's hands in quite this fashion but she knew that needs must when the devil drives and in any case, she knew of no other person's of professionalism that she valued more than George's. The other woman's tender consideration was only background colouration as they both intended. Once inside the bare, formal room with monochrome colouring, George secured Connie's eye contact and slowly and carefully outlined the immediate steps in the trial as if it were an operation.

"The order of events will be as follows after the formalities are done. There will be opening speeches for prosecution and defence, then in the afternoon, Dr Harry Cunninham will be questioned first by Cantwell and then by myself. Possibly, John will stick his oar in, you never 'll be standing in the dock and you'll have to undergo the bizarre situation of being talked about without having the chance of saying your piece. Be prepared to find that very uncomfortable as I wouldn't like it any more than you if I were in your place. You must accustom yourself to it. It is for the best as we're going to be here for the long haul for whatever it takes..."

George's crystal-clear words and her steady gaze started to settle into Connie's brain. She knew how much she needed this knew also that George's professionalism was her compassion and she would do well to cling to that as her lifeline as an uncertain mixture of adrenaline and fear pulsed through her veins while George talked.

The media scrum was still buzzing when Ric arrived inconspicuously, having made his way by foot from the nearest underground station. He had been somewhat disappointed as he approached the Old Bailey in not being able to see the image of the scales of justice that childhood memories of TV programmes of justice told him should be present. He shrugged his shoulders and his dogged resolution to be there for Connie started to be coloured by other emotions as the reality of what he was letting himself in for started to hit him. He couldn't deny that he was a little worried as he ran a finger round inside the collar of his white shirt and he loosened his tie. He peered through the crowd and cheered up as he spotted his old friend, Zubin whose tall, thin frame and acquiline nose were unmistakeable. Equally welcome was Tricia's presence whose inescapably bubbly nature would be vital on such a grim occasion. They had come to support not only Connie Beauchamp but him as well. By common agreement, they worked their way through the frontline security and into the spacious grandeur of the furnishings was hugely impressive and Ric hoped that the atmosphere of the building wouldn't intimidate him.

Tricia took one look at Ric, saw through his impassive demeanour not being fooled for one moment. Her natural concern which came over as cheekiness came to the fore.

"Your tie isn't quite straight,"she said, moving forward to adjust Ric's tie. "You simply cannot let down the good name of St. Mary's hospital for one of our most distinguished consultants to look untidy."

For a second, Ric was irritated by this maternal fussing but replied in his normal understated fashion rather than becoming argumentative for argument's sake. This was possible because it wasn't one of his ex-wives Lola Griffin invoking her all-knowing grandmother in offering some kind of unwanted advice.

"Only you could get away with this. I wouldn't let any of my four ex-wives push their luck like you are," Ric said with pretended annoyance while submitting to the treatment. They all knew that the trial would bear down harder on Ric than the others.

"I'm not married to you so what's the problem?" Tricia retorted pertly. Already, the rigid protocol of St. Mary's hospital was loosening and all of them appreciated this temporary amnesty. Even Tricia wouldn't talk and act the way she was doing in the white antiseptic world of a busy hospital.

"She's right, you know," added Zubin, concealing a smile at the way Tricia was shrewdly limbering Ric up into debating mood and boosting his confidence. "Let Tricia do her worst,"

"The main thing is that I need to be strong for Connie like the rest of us. Any public embarrassment I undergo right now is chicken feed in comparison. Anyway thanks," Ric replied, his final words and gentle half-smile softening his earlier earnest manner.

"I thought I could hear a familiar voice," called out that husky voice from behind Ric that made him fractionally wonder about his place in time, since all medical personnel were gathered together. Instead of the nurse's uniform he half expected to appear out of the corner of his eye, Karen appeared in her best smart black suit, her long fair hair just nicely wind blown. She was a sight for sore eyes, he thought, and a friend with valuable experience of taking the stand.

"Believe me, you're really welcome, Karen. I suppose our company ought to see the positive side of dicing with death at the hands of barristers with razor sharp verbal scalpels."

"You could be coping with the temper tantrums of a certain junior registrar, naming no names only I'm not supposed to notice what goes on," said Tricia in her best cheeky tones. Karen grinned broadly, fragments of memories rising to the surface.

"We'd better be making our way to the public gallery," Karen gently advised after she'd taken the measure of the place surprisingly quickly. She'd expected to be all at sea for the first hour or so, relearning what she once had got to know but that wasn't the case this time.

"We'll let you lead the way," offered Zubin with his native gallantry as Karen's heels clicked their way across the black and white tiles, laid out in chequerboard design and making her way towards the base of the familiar staircase. Once settled down towards the front of the gallery, Ric and Tricia blinked to see the majesty of the courtroom more bright and vivid than they had expected to see while Zubin adjusted more rapidly after his experience the previous year. He became seriously worried how Connie Beauchamp might react. He'd had his differences with the autocratic strong minded woman over the years but he knew that the grim fastness of the dock might wrench at the self-confidence of the strongest. Karen being the most experienced was able to centre herself quickly and knew it was down to her to give the others a pep talk.

"I've got the obvious advantage that that this is the fourth time I've sat in this particular public gallery but I must give you some quick advice before the trial starts when we have to be quiet."

Tricia picked up on this woman's obvious experience which buttressed her air of command. This wasn't some prison governor lecturing them but solid common sense being offered that they would do well to take notice of.

"We're listening, Karen,"Tricia replied. "This is all new to Ric and me. I've only seen this kind of thing on the telly."

"On no account can you verbally object to anything that is said in the court, or either Judge could hold you in contempt."

Zubin and Tricia knew that Karen had Ric's number by the hard stare she directed at him.

"I have my moments, Karen, but I know how to behave myself when I want to," Ric replied with a slight smile and upturned palms. He doesn't get it, Karen concluded instantly. He's assuming that this will be a gentlemanly game of cricket on the playing fields of Eton and it will be a simple thing for him to do. He doesn't know the half of what goes on.

"I mean it, Ric. The nastier the cross-examination gets, the harder it will become for you of all people to keep your mouth shut. You simply must button it at all times."

Finally, Ric gave way to the urgency of Karen's conviction. She wasn't a million miles away of the younger version of herself who could tell him, a registrar, what to do on the ward.

Finally, the ushers scurried round and called everyone involved in the Crown versus Beauchamp to pass through the back entrances into Court 2 into the theatre of justice itself. It generated an indefinable rustling sound. George escorted Connie towards the door used by the barristers. There was a poignant moment when George knew that there would be a parting of the ways, Connie to take her place in the dock and George to her familiar place on the bench.

"I'm really sorry that you have to be in the dock. If I had my way, you'd be right here beside me," George said in a quiet, apologetic tone of voice.

Connie smiled fondly at George. She had said exactly the right words and she knew that she would have to do her professional best to deport herself in a place which she knew that she would be seeing a lot of. She pretended to herself that the dock officers either side of her were here for the ride and this was her space and knew that this was the first coping mechanism she'd have to improvise.

Right up on high Jo made her stage entrance followed by John accompanied by the traditional double thump to announce her entrance. This is all for me, Jo thought, momentarily dazed by the occasion as she took her place in the central throne. How impossibly high up she was, she thought as she moistened her dry lips and adjusted her trial bundle. She looked sideways at John who discreetly took his place and opened the proceedings.

"For the benefit of the jury and all others present in the court, I must make clear that Jo Mills is the presiding judge, and I am here only as a winger. I am at liberty to ask questions of the barristers as is Jo Mills. Otherwise, the trial will function the same as any other trial."

Even at a grave moment like this while she sorted out her papers, George had to look down and repress a smile. In other words, this will be like a normal John Deed leopard doesn't easily change his spots.


	84. Chapter 84

Part Eighty Four

Once the preliminaries had been gone through, with Connie stating her plea and the jury having been selected and sworn in, Brian Cantwell rose to his feet at the right-hand end of the silks' bench, the one at the very front of the court, closest to the judge's bench, and where George was sitting at the extreme left. As he turned towards the jury, the members of the public gallery could see that the look on his face was almost cheerful. He was clearly looking forward to this fight, quite obviously courting the pleasure of drawing the opposing witnesses, and above all the defendant, within his web, until he would be figuratively eating them for lunch. For John, Jo and George, this was nothing new, but to Connie's supporters it reminded them all of a cobra, slithering through the jungle, waiting for just the right moment to sink his poisonous fangs through the skin of his prey.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," He said, initially exuding nothing but charm, "You see before you in the dock, a woman who, I can assure you, is extremely accomplished in her field of expertise, that of cardiothoracic surgery. She is at the very top of her profession, without yet having quite reached her fortieth birthday. The only professional accolade she hasn't yet acquired is the title of Professor, though I have no doubt that this is definitely part of her future plans. She has achieved enormous professional respect, she is exceedingly clever, and I am sure you will all agree with me that she is incredibly attractive. But I forget myself. I am standing for the prosecution, in a case that may dissuade some of you from seeking medical treatment for the rest of your lives, lest what happened to Angela Masters, also happens to you. Angela Masters was a patient of Connie Beauchamp's. She went into hospital for a routine operation to repair an Atrial Septal defect, what you and I know of as a whole in the heart. Connie Beauchamp performed the operation, along with her registrar Dr. William Curtis. After the operation, Angela Masters was placed in side room one of the High Dependency Unit on Darwin Ward. Three days later, when Angela Masters had regained consciousness and was on the road to making a full recovery, she died, without warning, and as was first thought, without explanation. As her death required some form of investigation, side room one of the High Dependency Unit was closed and sealed, leaving all evidence contained and secure. A post-mortem was done by Dr. Harry Cunningham, and the police were called. One of Connie Beauchamp's hairs was found in side room one, something I am sure the defence will say is highly inconclusive, as her client openly directed the continuation of Angela Masters' treatment. But this wasn't the only thing that was found. A syringe, bearing none other than Connie Beauchamp's fingerprints, and containing traces of potassium chloride, a drug that can kill very quickly and very painlessly. It is, I am told, the drug used to perform very late terminations of pregnancy, by simply stopping the heartbeat of the foetus. In this case, it was used to stop the heart of Angela Masters, very quickly and very quietly, very possibly whilst she was asleep, so that such a cowardly act could proceed without question." There was absolute silence at this point, with even the furiously scribbling pens in the press box lying still. Brian Cantwell allowed this silence to grow thick, leaving an atmosphere ripe for the cutting.

"As he performed the post-mortem," Brian Cantwell finally continued, almost shocking everybody into breathing again, "Dr. Harry Cunningham will be my first witness. Connie Beauchamp's registrar, Dr. Will Curtis, will be my second witness, and the tales he has to tell of Connie Beauchamp's professional bullying and sexual bribery, really do deserve all of your attention. There isn't a tactic in the book that Mrs., Beauchamp won't use to get what she wants. The court may be surprised to hear that although this beautiful woman sitting before you is married, and has been for the past eighteen years, she regularly seeks sexual gratification outside her marriage, and more often than not from her junior colleagues. Indeed, just under a year ago, when Mrs. Beauchamp was appearing for the prosecution, the Queen's Counsel who is now acting in her defence, did in fact state that the entire hospital was aware of the favours she would accord up and coming registrars, who required either a leg up or a leg over." George almost rose in fury to her feet, realising that Cantwell had quoted her word for word from the Barbara Mills trial the year before. But knowing that this was the opening speech and that she had a very long way to go, she settled for mouthing several choice insults in Brian's direction.

"Ms Channing," John's voice interrupted sternly. "I don't expect to be able to lip read such language coming from a QC in open court. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, My Lord," George replied, sounding thoroughly bored where she should have appeared chastened.

"Then please desist in mouthing insults at the prosecuting barrister, that clearly question his legitimate parentage." At this, even Connie had to smile.

"My third witness," Cantwell continued. "Is Detective Inspector Archer, one of Mrs. Beauchamp's arresting officers, and who primarily investigated the crime scene. My fourth and final witness, will be Dr. Diane Lloyd, general surgical registrar. She can also testify to the depths to which Connie Beauchamp's morals can plummet, both in her professional and personal life. Members of the jury, I intend to expose before you a ruthless, heartless, power hungry, sexually depraved woman determined to succeed at every turn, no matter whom she is obliged to crush in her path. I will establish beyond all reasonable doubt that Connie Beauchamp killed Angela Masters, whether to prove a point to a professional or personal enemy, or for simple, sexual gratification."

As George rose to her feet, she was forced to acknowledge to herself that Cantwell had set her a challenge, raising the bar extremely high, especially for this initial stage of the battle. She was thinking the word battle, but what she was now engaged in with the prosecuting barrister was nothing short of a war, almost a war to end all wars.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," She began, turning to face them and ignoring Brian Cantwell completely. "I bring before you an entirely different woman to the one whom the prosecution seeks to present you with. Connie Beauchamp is a highly professional, extremely competent woman, who has excelled so far in her chosen field of cardio thoracic surgery. She achieved her status of cardio thoracic consultant at the very young age of thirty-one, something which many of her colleagues envy her for. The prosecution will be asking questions of two of Mrs. Beauchamp's colleagues, though I am here to tell you that he has picked the two colleagues whom I will expose as jealous, spiteful glory hunters, who would do anything to have Mrs. Beauchamp removed from their professional and personal vicinity. When Connie Beauchamp takes the stand, you will hear of a woman who has focussed almost solely on her career, working day in day out to save people's lives. Yes, she is a risk taker, and yes she demands absolute commitment from her junior staff, but this is not without significant results for the many lives that she has saved and vastly improved. She is recognised as one of the top surgeons in her field, having published numerous journal articles on the innovative procedures which she has often had to fight to be able to introduce wherever she has worked. Do not misunderstand me, ladies and gentlemen, Connie Beauchamp does not take risks unnecessarily, she does not adopt new procedures just for the hell of it or simply to attain professional recognition, she works in this way purely for the lives of her patients."

As they listened to George's opening speech, the occupants of the front row of the public gallery were spellbound. They all knew George in their different ways, and it slightly astounded them to hear her extolling Connie's virtues so fluently. To Karen this was nothing knew, as she had heard George waxing lyrical in Barbara's trial the year before, but to Tricia, Ric and Zubin it was an entirely knew experience. Even though Zubin had stood as a witness in Barbara's trial, he hadn't ever heard George be quite so effusive in her praise of a future witness. Ric just sat and stared. It had made him wince more than once to hear the way the prosecuting counsel had spoken of Connie, as he had provided and illustration of a woman Ric barely knew, a woman whom Ric wouldn't have become involved with in a million years. But that wasn't Connie, not his Connie, not the Connie he knew he loved.

"My second witness will be Dr. Kay Scarpetta," George continued. "Whom some of you have seen in this court before. She will be casting doubt on virtually every stage of the post-mortem carried out by Dr. Harry Cunningham. She will also be presenting some evidence that the prosecution made the mistake of not bothering to find for themselves, which will also assist you in questioning the supposed guilt of my client. My third witness is without doubt a controversial one. Captain Peter Marino, is a colleague of Dr. Scarpetta's, which is how he became involved with this case. He is a high-ranking detective of the Richmond police department in Virginia and also holds a consultancy post with the FBI, as does Dr. Scarpetta." At this point, the members of the gallery without question looked highly impressed, seeing in an instant that George had gone all out to obtain the most influential witnesses possible. "Captain Marino, interviewed Mrs. Beauchamp, and I can safely say that he left no stone unturned. He also interviewed a number of Mrs. Beauchamp's colleagues, especially those who may have something to gain by my client's imprisonment. My fourth witness is Tom Campbell-Gore, who has also previously appeared in this court. He is a consultant colleague of Mrs. Beauchamp's, and he will be providing a character witness for her, confirming to you, members of the jury, that whilst my client may be a hard task master and not always a pleasure to work with, she remains professional throughout, disciplining her junior colleagues only when necessary. My fifth and final witness, is Wing Governor Nikki Wade, of Her Majesty's prison Larkhall, where my client was remanded for approximately two months. Ms Wade will testify to the good behaviour of my client whilst in her care, despite the efforts of other officers to make life extremely difficult for my client. This evidence will go a long way to show you that my client does not falter under pressure, that she can uphold a professional persona in the most difficult of circumstances, and that never would she resort to committing murder either in her profession or outside it. The prosecution has constructed its case on nothing more than the flimsiest of hearsay, giving you, members of the jury, and this court, no option but to find my client not guilty."

The resulting silence seemed to ring with the echo of George's final words, leaving the members of the gallery thinking that Connie really couldn't have picked a better advocate.

"I think on that note, we will adjourn," JO said into the quiet. "Court will reconvene at two o'clock." As the members of the gallery made their way downstairs, George let Connie out of the dock, assuring the dock officers that she wouldn't lose her before court came back for the afternoon. When they emerged into the relative noise of the foyer, Connie said close to George's ear,

"You were fucking amazing." George smirked.

"I do aim to please," She said, pleased that Connie was happy with her performance so far. "But I wasn't expecting Cantwell to dig up old court papers in order to throw my words back in my face like that. I really am sorry about that."

"George," Connie assured her. "I can remember every word of that cross-examination a year ago, and whilst some of it can still make me cringe, I do know that you were only doing your job, so try not to think about it." When they reached the others, Zubin smiled at her.

"Was that round one to you or round one to Cantwell?" He asked, wanting to break the ice.

"Definitely neck and neck at the moment," George told him, "Though I wasn't expecting him to quote me verbatim."

"Did you really say that?" Ric asked her, not looking remotely impress.

"Leave it, Ric," Connie put in before George could answer.

"This time last year," George tried to explain to him. "I was on the opposite side to Connie, and as you will discover over the next few days, I will use anything and say anything to discredit the evidence of an opposing witness. It isn't friendly and it isn't nice, but it's my job."

"But after saying that and more about Connie, how can you...?" Slapping a hand over Ric's mouth to prevent him from speaking, she hissed at him,

"Don't even think of finishing that sentence, and especially not here, not unless you want to get me kicked out of a job." But as soon as she'd removed her hand from Ric's mouth, he said,

"But..."

"Right, that's it," George said, catching his hand and dragging him with her, "Since you obviously require an explanation, it'll have to be in my car, now, where I can at least guarantee we won't be overheard." As she forcefully led him away towards the back entrance and the car park, Connie couldn't help but smirk.

"Now do you see why I hired her?" She asked, provoking a slightly nervous laugh from Zubin and Tricia, and a grin to match from Karen.

When they reached George's car, she pointed to the passenger's side and told Ric to get in. When the doors were shut, George dug out her cigarettes and lit two, handing one to Ric.

"If the Bar council got the faintest sniff of the sexual relationship I have with Connie, my career, everything I have spent my life working for would go up in smoke. It is one hundred percent forbidden for a barrister to sleep with their client. It is akin to a doctor sleeping with their patient, absolutely not allowed."

"Then why are you doing it?" Ric asked her, after taking a grateful drag of his cigarette.

"You're asking me to put into words feelings that I don't yet understand myself," George told him quietly. "Whether I'm right or wrong, I feel as though Connie completely understands why I am who I am. That might sound trite, but that's how it is, and I don't just mean sexually, though that is a pretty incredible added bonus. Connie said something to me on Saturday, something that you might want to think about. She said that if we worried about every crass comment that we made to each other, she and I would never get anywhere." Thinking about this as he smoked, Ric realised that she was right. Connie and George both had very fiery combative natures, and they both often spoke long before they thought, so what Connie had said to George definitely made sense.

"I'm sorry," He said, stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray. "I think it was just a shock to hear something like that, that's all."

"Well get used to it, and get used to it fast," George warned him firmly. "Because you're going to hear far worse than that before the week is out. I would like to be able to protect you from the things you're going to find out about Connie, but I can't. My biggest concern this week has to be Connie, and how she will deal with her past being known by all and sundry. If I am to fully concentrate on her, I need to be allowed to do that. Is that clear?"

"Yes," Ric assured her, feeling about as small as a pin. "I wish you could tell me what she's keeping from me."

"And you are putting me in a very difficult position by even suggesting it," George told him stonily. "Try and work out why Connie is like she is, why she deals with men in the way that she does, and that really is all I can tell you." Getting out of the car, George walked back to the court building, with Ric following her, his brain whirling what George had said to him around and around, briefly wondering if Connie really appreciated the friend, lover and barrister she had in George.


	85. Chapter 85

Part Eighty-Five

When they all reconvened after the lunchtime adjournment, it was the turn of Harry Cunningham to take the stand.

"Dr. Cunningham," Brian Cantwell began. "What did you find when you performed a post-mortem on Angela Masters?"

"Angela Masters was killed by the use of an injection of potassium chloride. This was given to her via the intravenous needle in her left arm."

"And how does potassium chloride act on a person?"

"If given in a sufficient quantity, potassium chloride stops the heart from beating. This is usually the method used to stop a foetal heart from beating for the purposes of a late termination of pregnancy. Angela Masters would not have suffered." There was a short silence as this thought was examined by everyone present.

"Would the administering of the drug that killed Angela Masters, need to be done by a medically trained professional?"

"Medical knowledge would be required in order to know what drug to use," Harry replied contemplatively. "But you wouldn't necessarily need actual training to administer it, especially if the purpose was to cause someone harm."

"I would ask members of the jury to remember those words, medical knowledge," Cantwell put in before asking his next question.

"With regards to access to such a lethal drug," Cantwell continued. "Would it be a doctor or a nurse who would be able to acquire this drug from the hospital's pharmacy?"

"I would suspect that only a doctor would be able to acquire such a thing from the hospital's pharmacy, though I couldn't be certain."

"Mrs. Beauchamp for example," Cantwell put in slyly. "Would she be able to obtain access to potassium chloride?"

"That is speculative, Mr. Cantwell," Jo reminded him. "Rephrase your question."

"Very well, I will rephrase my question," Cantwell agreed, having fully expected Jo's response. "Would a mere registrar be able to acquire Potassium chloride, or would it take the rank of consultant?"

"For a start," Harry told him. "You should never apply the word mere to a registrar, as they have worked through years of training to achieve that status. But to answer your question, yes, a registrar probably could acquire potassium chloride, but it really isn't my job to speculate."

"I only have one more question," Cantwell continued after a moment's pause, having clearly made sure that he had the court's complete attention. "Do you believe Mrs. Beauchamp to be guilty?"

"My Lord this is outrageous!" George shouted as she leapt to her feet. "It is not the witness's job to decide whether or not my client is guilty."

"I quite agree Ms Channing," john told her. "But you should be addressing your objections to Judge Mills."

"I apologise, Your Honour," George said, looking over at Jo and feeling a little silly.

"Your objection is noted, Ms Channing, and Mr. Cantwell should know better."

"I have no further questions, Your Honour," Cantwell replied, moving back to his seat at the silk's bench.

As George moved towards the stand to question Harry, she couldn't help remembering that day when she had observed part of the post-mortem that Kay had done. She was fervently hoping that he couldn't remember how the sight of the dead woman's face being removed had made her throw up and then leave.

"Dr. Cunningham, there were three post-mortems performed on Angela Masters. Which one was yours?"

"I performed the third one," Harry replied, thinking that he could probably guess what was coming.

"And please could you remind the court why so many post-mortems were performed on Angela Masters?"

"The first one to my knowledge," Harry tried to explain. "Was performed by a pathologist who was well overdue for retirement, and who should never have been given the responsibility of such a task. The second, as the defence well knows, was performed by Dr. Kay Scarpetta, simply because you did a deal with the prosecution, to allow the defence the first real go at the post-mortem, as the prosecution made the first examination of the crime scene." George heard a slight laugh from the public gallery that she could have sworn came from Karen, something that inexplicably seemed to boost George's confidence. "The prosecution wanted a far more accurate post-mortem than the one they got the first time, so I was asked to do it."

"Dr. Cunningham," George continued, the weight of an approaching bombshell clear in her voice. "Were you present for at least part of the second post-mortem, the one performed by Dr. Scarpetta, the second witness for the defence?"

"You know I was," Harry replied calmly. "You were there."

"And when Dr. Scarpetta invited you to stay, do you remember what you said to her?"

"Not off hand, no."

"You told her, 'I never pass up the opportunity to learn something knew.' Tell me, were you aware even then that you would be performing the post-mortem for the prosecution?"

"No, I wasn't," Harry told her candidly. "If I had been, I wouldn't have stayed to watch Dr. Scarpetta in action."

"When you were informed that you would be doing the post-mortem for the prosecution, did it not occur to you to refuse, stating the obvious conflict of interest?"

"When I approach a post-mortem, I unequivocally abandon any thoughts I might have about the person for whom I am trying to find answers. The police have a habit of suggesting answers before I find them. I was aware that Mrs. Beauchamp had been charged with the murder of Angela Masters, but I didn't allow this to influence my judgement."

"So, it didn't affect you in the slightest that you had already heard Dr. Scarpetta's verdict as to the cause of Angela Masters' death?"

"I can't pretend that I wasn't slightly pleased to have reached the same verdict as she did," Harry confessed after a moment's thought. "She is without doubt the best in her field, and yes, I usually do learn something knew from her every time I watch her work."

"You're Honour," George said decisively, turning to face the judge's bench. "I submit that the evidence presented by this witness is unreliable at best and should immediately be struck from the record." Jo regarded her thoughtfully, her gaze moving from George to Harry to Cantwell and back to George.

"I see your point, Ms Channing, but I need some time to think about it. You and Mr. Cantwell can argue it out in chambers, tomorrow morning, not in front of the jury. Court is adjourned." As everyone rose and began to file out of the public gallery, George again went to retrieve Connie from the dock officer's clutches.

"That was short and sweet," Connie said, having expected them to be here in court somewhat longer.

"Tomorrow morning won't be sweet," George told her with a slight smirk. "Because there's no way that Cantwell is going to allow the evidence of his first witness to be struck without a fight."


	86. Chapter 86

**Part Eighty-Six**

As the rustling sound of departing feet descended on the court, Jo found herself remaining up on high, blinking her eyes in surprise. A slight sense of unreality descended upon her as she saw herself remaining here right up on the throne, centre stage while the courtroom below her was emptying. At one time, she would be the barrister clutching a sheaf of papers and files who would have headed for the exit to a quiet room where she would have done her homework for the next stage in the trial.

Suddenly, as John observed from the sidelines, she shook her head. She was a judge now and bound to uphold the impartiality of the law and to exercise her power judiciously. He saw how her lips straightened and he wondered what stray thought might be on her mind.

"It amuses me to think that, for once, you are able to come to my chambers without any tongues wagging," John observed drily. Immediately the words had escaped his lips, he knew that he had made a big mistake.

"Times have changed John. It's about time that George for one realised that. I intend to make my mark on this trial," Jo replied in cold ominous tones.

"It was a natural mistake soon remedied. I'm sure it won't happen again. George isn't out to make trouble," John protested, raising his hands to keep the peace. He really wasn't sure why Jo had flown off the handle like this and the last thing he wanted was to be locked together in perpetual battle with her.

"So you think," Jo retorted.

"Come on Jo. We need to have a chat to review progress to date so that you can keep on top of the case. We must be professional about the matter. Believe me, you haven't seen the half of the way trials can go and the stresses they can engender. You've made a good start but there's a long way to go."

Jo realised that she couldn't remain angry in the face of John's infernal reasonableness and his irrefutable arguments especially as she wasn't altogether sure just why she had got that way. She opted for playing the professional card and seeing where he wanted to run with this conversation. John led the way back off the rear of the judge's throne and along the corridor to his chambers. Her mood lifted at the thought that she had a perfect right to be there as, after all, it would have been irrational of her to slip into his chambers because of the thrill of the forbidden as she had strong standards in public life. She let him lead the way, took her place in an armchair while John poured her an orange juice and a similar measure for himself. This couldn't ever be a drinking session but just a symbolic toast to her getting the first day under her belt.

"So what do you make of this trial in your expert opinion?" Jo asked in her challenging fashion.

"This trial is going to get dirty. You know how sly and devious Cantwell is and borrowing one of George's more scathing lines from a past trial when George was opposite Connie, has certainly kicked off the trial in that direction."

"You almost sound as if you're defending her," Jo jumped in, looking stony faced.

"If you let me proceed, you'll hear me say that George isn't above using any trick in the book that will gain advantage," John said with strained patience. "I'm telling you that both barristers are highly skilled as if they're playing poker as to who will rob the bank at Monte Carlo. Each will say to the other, I'll see you and I'll raise you. The danger that I can see is that they'll each sail that bit closer to the wind than they would otherwise do. If George were pitted against say, Neumann Mason-Alan, she'd let him score own goals in terms of leading the witness and run circles round each other. It's the two particular barristers that give me cause for concern in judging where the line should be drawn. You did well in reining in Cantwell in getting him to rephrase the question."

"That was nothing," Jo said with a due display of modesty.

"What's essential is to mark out the parameters and to stick to them, to be almost fanatically consistent. Of course, doing that years ago when you and George were sworn enemies, poles apart politically and with unresolved personal conflicts was something I always contemplated with a sinking feeling," John said with total seriousness.

"Come off it," grinned Jo. "Deep down, you loved the idea of two women fighting over you."

John's faint grin in response was poorly disguised. Jo considered that his attempt to conjure up total candour left it very difficult for him to do otherwise. She was realising that, after all, his advice was meant for the best and he wasn't minutely dissecting her performance today for any imperfection that needn't be voiced. She swallowed the rest of her orange juice and started to feel more relaxed.

"So what other dangers might we need to watch out for?" Jo asked, knowing that the matter couldn't be as simple as that.

"I can see this becoming a morals trial and Cantwell has wasted no time in smearing Co- I mean Mrs Beauchamp's character in short order," John said, slightly stumbling over his words.

"But to play devil's advocate, aren't the foibles of character at the heart of any trial?" persisted Jo smoothly, the memories coming right off her subconscious." It had a lot to do with, for example, the Crown versus Merriman and Atkins all those years ago when I was prosecuting and Cantwell was defending. Well, at the beginning anyway. It all hinges on the believability of the witnesses and it was patently clear what a smooth talking operator Richie Atkins was, someone who thought he could worm himself out of any trouble."

John stood up and paced round the room, still holding onto his glass of whisky. Jo was in danger of falling into the very trap he had been trying all along. He knew that he would have to cut to the chase and screw the civilities for once in his life. The words came pouring out of his mouth without any premeditation.

"We had a discussion about this trial months ago and you said that and I quote I know that I must divorce my personal feelings so that I can dispense justice, unquote. You made that promise and I am going to hold you to that. You see it's not so easy if you find yourself in the position that you don't please either warring party and you don't please yourself either. It's one thing to set out your stall so that everyone knows where you stand. It's quite another thing to make quite sure that your stall is fit for purpose in the first place."

The way that John's eyes flashed and his face turned red with anger brought Jo up short. She realised that she had gone too far. It was a shock to her system to realise that she could be held to account over the way she conducted herself and on a more personal level. So many times over the years, it had been John who had fallen short in his personal life or he had come to some perverse judgment so that she had bitterly reproached him including the occasion when she had arrived drunk at his digs, proceeded to get even more drunk, get put to bed and for some officious clerk from the Lord Chancellor's Department to sneak photographs of them and which had led her to be summoned before the Professional Conduct Committee. Of course she was sure that it had been all his fault. That was then and this is now. This was what had disoriented her.

"I'm sorry," Jo said, her words abruptly cut off.

"You now see the pitfall lying in wait for you?" John said softly, walking to the drinks cabinet and offering a refill. Jo waved the courtesy aside. She was all right as she stood. "I freely admit my own danger in being emotionally involved in the case which is why I agreed to Monty's suggestion in being a winger and playing it straight down the line. I've had to resist the temptation to influence you into being a proxy for me. That would be unforgivable as it would be demeaning and showing total lack of respect. Believe you me, I've done a lot of soul-searching about this trial."

"So where is this leading us?" questioned Jo, feeling John's elaborate verbal footsteps up to the mark but not getting there.

"The point is that you might have to give similar thoughts from the other end of the spectrum. You must consider the possibility that you might not be exactly smitten by Mrs Beauchamp and you should make allowances for that. I've often thought that a lifetime learning to be an advocate doesn't necessarily make the transition to becoming a judge that easy. In my case, I'm forever torn between my passions and campaigns and attempting Olympian detachment. I fear that I may have inadvertently handed you a poisoned chalice without thinking about it."

"I see what you mean. I'll take what you say to heart," Jo said, the point going home thanks to John's melodious voice. "Forgive me for my earlier bad temper. I don't know what came over me."

"It happens to all of us," John said, making a hasty excuse for her, kissing her on her cheek.

"I think I have to go home and unwind. I need an early night and pace myself through the trial. Afterwards, I can let my hair down," Jo concluded, laughing slightly and heading for the door. John sat back in the sofa, looking sideways at the picture of the ancient judge hanging behind his desk, forever looking down on him.


	87. Chapter 87

**Part Eighty-Seven**

A/N Forensic Report written by Kristine

John paced slowly and deliberately along his well trodden route to his chambers, deep in thought at an earlier hour in the morning than was his habit. He knew very well why his most effective thinking should be reserved for the sanctity of his chambers. Despite his efforts to pour oil onto troubled waters in his conversations with Jo Mills the previous day, he knew very well that summoning two opposing barristers to chambers to thrash over the admissibility of Harry Cunningham's evidence wasn't going to be easy. The setting of his chambers, complete with his comfortable sofa and armchairs , drinks cabinet made for an infinitely more informal arrangement than the constrained theatrics of a court of law, appearances could be deceptive. In this situation, in such tough bargaining, he could handle opposing barristers whether standing four-square in front of him,.body language radiating forcefulness or speaking in a soft beguiling voice, seeking advantage by subtle manoeuvre. The ring had to be held by the judge and a legal outcome firmly deployed. The trouble from John's point of view was that he'd become so used to sorting such matters out that he couldn't work out for the life of him how he'd acquired such arts. As he sat back on the sofa, seeking inspiration, he could only suppose that, his mannerisms aside, the natural man in him permeated every ounce of his professional skills. You could either do it or you can't. If he'd been out on the streets facing a physical confrontation, he'd have behaved the same way. It was now that he realised that he'd stumbled on the base for his fears for Jo, however much he respected her professional skills. In a moment, he recoiled away from the thought as it was very rare that John let himself become as introspective as this. His instinct was to check the time and know that Jo would be arriving very shortly but the sound of heels clicking on the corridor announced that it was Coope rather than Jo. She was slower, more stately in the way she moved, including the way she walked into the chambers, raised her eyebrows at his early presence but made no comment at all. In John's mood of heightened perceptions, he knew now that Coope had always been such a supportive presence whether he was conscious or not.

"I've got some paperwork to attend to, judge," Coope remarked in an easy going fashion which was her subtle hint that she'd make herself discreet for when Jo Mills, George Channing and Brian Cantwell would arrive.

Jo smiled broadly as she entered the room, complete with her smartest dark suit with knee level skirt and formal white shirt. Somehow she looked distinctly more formal than when she was a barrister or was that John's imagination or heightened awareness?

"I'm ready to let battle commence."

"So was I when I got a hint of Charlie's latest crusade and escapade and her forthcoming visit when she was at university. the wonder is that my hair isn't as white as Michael Niven's," John murmured with a self-deprecating smile.

"But we're here to hear legal arguments," protested Jo mildly.

"You may find that you're somehow back in time when you were arbitrating between Tom and Mark in their teenage years and you were there to hand out justice. You'll find out that you're back being parent,. trying to be fair not least to yourself. The rights of judges and parents needs to get a look in somewhere," observed John in his mildest tones, thanking his stars that the right words came to mind. That did the trick as Jo's knowing smile answered him back

"We'd better work out our provisional position in the time we have left to us. I sense the ticking of the clock," Jo suggested, winning John's easy assent.

Sure enough, the firm tread of Brian Cantwell's solid shoes and the rapid clacking of George's high heels formed an impromptu musical duo, converging on the door to the chambers. Jo welcomed them graciously and the preliminary civilities were exchanged, John offering coffee which was politely accepted. Presently, John and Jo occupied the sofa while George and Brian Cantwell took up opposing armchairs.

"Your Honour, I submit that there are no end of reasons why Dr Cunningham cannot possibly be allowed to give evidence in this trial," George urged in furious tones, pointing with her fountain pen in short, stabbing movements. "I have nothing against the witness personally..."

"Doesn't she just," interjected Brian Cantwell, his malicious tone of voice somehow cutting through George's flow of words.

"Enough," Jo declared in ringing tones in a way John gave full marks to. "Let Ms Channing continue."

"Thank you, your Honour. I am grateful," George said, attaching an instant smile to her face. "Well, for a start, not only was Harry Cunningham present at the second post-mortem, performed by Dr Scarpetta, he then agreed to do the third, the one asked for by the prosecution, without acknowledging and reporting his fairly obvious conflict of interest."

"Well, accidents will happen," Brian Cantwell counter-argued in his silkiest tone of voice. "I mean, how could such a busy man foresee that he'd be called on to give evidence?"

"By the time Dr Cunningham performed the third post-mortem, Angela Masters' body would have been so badly cut up, that no way could his results be possibly accurate."

"Your Honour, you clearly underestimate the very great skills and professional expertise of Dr Cunningham who has already demonstrated great expertise in his field, especially in the case where the human body has sustained far greater injury, say in a road traffic accident."

"Whilst he was present during the post-mortem performed by Dr Kay Scarpetta, he said to be heard by all present, that 'He never missed the opportunity to learn something new', after being asked if he would stay," George continued without a flicker, knowing that Brian had her on that point..

"So what does that signify?" Brian Cantwell declaimed in loud self assured tones. "Even any of us cannot put his hand on his or own heart and swear they know everything."

"My final point is the most damning,"George cut back with a slower, more deliberate delivery. "Not only did Dr Cunningham watch the post-mortem being performed by Dr Scarpetta, he actually took part, by photographing everything Dr Scarpetta did. These facts will be noted in the post-mortem report and are undeniable. I know this as I was actually there at the time. I have no problem with Dr Cunningham but I submit that running with the fox and hunting with the hounds goes against any concepts of justice and both you and I, Brian know this to be true."

The triumphant gleam in George's eye and the way she stressed her metaphor with slow emphasis told Brian that she was paying him back, coin for coin. George's extensive network of knowledge told her very well that, on weekends, Brian Cantwell would troop down to his local hunt, resplendent in his pink hunting jacket and dashing over the English countryside, the blasts of sounds from hunting horns resounding through the chill air.

"Metaphors have no place in English law George. They can be greatly misused."

At that moment, both barristers became aware that Jo was studying the post-mortem report with intense interest.

"Name: Masters, Angela S, Miss.

Date: 30 September 2006.

Case Number: 2330906.

Pathologist: Dr. Harry Cunningham.

Facility: The Morgue, St. Mary's Hospital, London, W1.

I must first begin by saying that this is the third post-mortem to be performed on this woman. I am acknowledging that I was present at the second, but I assert that I have approached this one with a completely open mind.

Angela Masters was a thirty-six-year-old woman, five feet six inches tall, weighing nine stone eleven pounds. She was admitted to hospital on the third of August this year and was discovered to have an Atrial Septal Defect, or a hole in the heart. She was born with this condition, but was completely unaware of its existence until it began taking a toll on her health. Her blood wasn't being thoroughly oxygenated, causing breathlessness, weakness and lethargy. It was decided that an operation should be performed to close the small hole between her left and right atria. Two days after this operation, Angela Masters died, without any immediately apparent cause.

I began by thoroughly examining the surface of Angela Masters' body, performing X-rays, taking samples of hair and fingernails, and finally using an ultraviolet light source (A Luma-lite) to go over the entire outer surface of the skin. Whilst using the Luma-lite, I found traces of something inside the vein in her left elbow, where an intravenous needle had clearly been secured. I took a swab of this residue, the results of which confirmed it to be potassium chloride.

After performing the Y incision, I removed the heart and the lungs as one block, severing the trachea and transecting the aorta, vena cava, pulmonary artery and pulmonary vein. Before examining these organs, I removed the stomach and weighed it. There was no stomach contents, as the woman hadn't eaten anything since her surgery, and had only consumed a minimal amount of water, according to her fluid balance chart. The stomach was clean and tubular. The pancreas was undamaged, and the kidneys and liver were healthy and unremarkable.

On examining the block of heart and lungs, I could see that the lungs were healthy and pink, obviously of a non-smoker. The heart in contrast was somewhat enlarged, due to the Atrial Septal Defect. There were clear signs of the stitching administered during her cardiac surgery, but the pericardium was in tact and the major blood vessels undisturbed. After removing the pericardial sack and opening the ventricles, I perceived a rough, grainy appearance to the inner surfaces of the heart's chambers. I took a swab from what almost appeared to be a film over the surface of the atria and ventricles, which also resulted in a confirmation of potassium chloride.

In conclusion, Angela Masters was without doubt killed by the administration of potassium chloride. This was almost certainly introduced to the body via the intravenous drip situated in her left elbow. Potassium chloride kills a human very quickly, very quietly, and very painlessly. She would not have felt a thing. Potassium chloride collects on the inner surfaces of the chambers of the heart, preventing it from beating correctly, and if a high enough dose is given, it will simply paralyse the cardiac muscle. Potassium chloride would have needed to have been acquired from the hospital's pharmacy, whether by the submission of a prescription for the termination of a well-advanced pregnancy, or by simple theft. How or why this was done, is up to the police to decide.

Signed: Dr. Harry Cunningham.

Dated: 30/09/06."

"Look at that, John," Jo breathed with suppressed excitement, pointing towards a line halfway down the page. "I think we need to recall Dr Cunningham to the stand and ask him a few questions." In a second, an inscrutable smile spread across John's face, causing Brian Cantwell's expression to cloud over and irritating the ever curious George in being shut out of the loop.

Dr Cunningham took his place at the stand with considerable trepidation as he could not for the life of him work out why he should be recalled to the stand. He was sure he'd covered all bases. He was not reassured by the sight of Jo Mills staring down at him with steely blue eyes and a lurking smile on her face.

"Members of the jury, I ought to explain that rather than letting the learned counsels slug it out as to the admissibility of Dr Cunningham's evidence, the matter can best be resolved by me directing a simple question towards Dr Cunningham about a critical aspect of the post-mortem report. I would remind you, Dr Cunningham that you are still under oath."

"Certainly," Dr Cunningham found himself intoning on automatic pilot, his eyes going in and out of focus as he stared at his copy of the report..

"You state in your report and I quote,'After performing the Y incision, I removed the heart and the lungs as one block, severing the trachea and transecting the aorta, vena cava, pulmonary artery and pulmonary vein.' My question is how can you possibly make such a statement when you have given evidence that Dr Scarpetta had already carried out a post-mortem, one with which you assisted?"

Dr Cunningham's world felt like falling in on him. How on earth could he have committed such an elementary blunder, having been so careful to check that the minute technical details right and overlooking the bigger picture? Both George and Brian Cantwell felt exactly the same way and their moods were not improved by the obvious amusement shared on the judge's throne above them. This was a clear breach of the unwritten rules of court though neither of them could say so openly. As for Connie, she felt as if she'd been picked up by a tornado and bewilderingly placed in a place of safety. Dr Cunningham was the first to pull himself together and did his best to retrieve the situation.

"I can only say that for all post-mortems, I simply wrote down the removal of the organs as a matter of course, the way I normally operate. Of course, the lung/heart block had been returned to the chest cavity, though obviously not reconnected. I had made a slight oversight in not noting this in the post-mortem report, but this doesn't interfere with my findings as to how come Miss Masters came to die by administration of potassium chloride."

"Where such an obvious and major discrepancy comes to light in one area of evidence, I am compelled to rule that the evidence as a whole cannot be relied upon. I shall, of course, be reminding you, the jury of this in my final summing up,"Jo pronounced confidently, John looking on with satisfaction at the way the morning's events had unfolded. The stillness of the court was sufficient answer.

"Mr Cantwell, is your next witness available to be heard next?" Jo asked, looking at her watch. There was a flurry of activity between Brian Cantwell and the instructing solicitor as the morning's business had proceeded more dramatically quickly than had been anticipated.

"He needs a little time for him to be released from his duties," Brian Cantwell ventured tentatively.

***"I would appreciate it if my learned counsel's witness could be heard in the afternoon because there is something I need to do that involves leaving the court building," George interjected softly

"Do you have someone who can make sure that the defendant doesn't go astray?" Jo asked, turning to George with a quizzical expression on her face.

"Of course," George said with a perfectly straight face.

"In which case, it might help if we hear the witness after lunch. Court is adjourned," Jo pronounced.

"I am obliged," Cantwell replied impassively with a nod of appreciation to George. ******. He needed that unexpected extra time to get his case back on track.

"I am so sorry Connie," George said as the two women drew close to each other in the stream of people filing out of court.**** The large old fashioned clock on the wall announced in roman numerals that it was eleven-o- clock. So much had happened in the morning so soon.**** "I should have spotted such an obvious mistake myself." An idle thought struck Connie that George looked never so attractive as when she apologised. Besides, her own confused thoughts conceived of George as a fellow professional and she was known to be far less gracious if she were caught out in similar circumstances.

"It doesn't matter George. Everything has turned out for the best, believe me," Connie answered, a warm reassuring smile on her face before the press of people swallowed up her protector. For one moment, George afforded herself the dangerous luxury of a flood of tender emotions and the image of Connie's smile until the time came when she knew that she had to slip her mask back over her emotions and prepare for more disagreeable company in the form of the next prosecution witness, one Will Curtis.


	88. Chapter 88

Part Eighty-Eight

Taking Karen slightly to one side, George said,

"Can I trust you to keep an Eye on Connie till I get back?"

"I should think so," Karen replied, briefly wondering what she was getting herself into.

"Don't lose her," George said her face close to Karen's. "It would cost me my job."

After leaving Connie in Karen's capable hands, George drove across London to the offices containing Prison Service Area Management, fervently praying that Neil Grayling would be in his office, and able to do what she wanted. He was surprised to see her to say the least.

"Shouldn't you be in court?" He asked as she entered his office.

"I managed to secure an adjournment," She replied, taking the seat in front of his desk. "Because I'm hoping you can do something for me."

"At a moment's notice, I presume," He said with a rueful smile.

"I do apologise for my somewhat precipitate appearance, but I'm taking a fairly huge gamble on a hunch. It's something that has only just occurred to me, and if I'm right, I should have thought of it long before now."

"You're talking in riddles again," He told her with a laugh. "What do you need?"

"An in with the police, preferably someone who works in the police station that investigated Connie."

"Not sure I can get you both things at once, but I can probably find you an in with the DCI who runs a Major Incident Team, and who knows what she can find out for you."

After looking through his address book, Neil picked up the phone and dialled.

"DCI Carol Jordan," The voice greeted him at the end of the phone.

"Carol, its Neil Grayling."

"Neil, long time no speak. How are you?"

"I need a favour, Carol."

"So what else is new?" She said with a smile. "What can I do for you?"

"Have you had any dealings with the Connie Beauchamp case?"

"Not me unfortunately," Carol said disgustedly. "Or she wouldn't be in court. It was assigned to one of the worst DIs in the business."

"Are you serious?" Neil said with a smirk. "I have the defence barrister with me right now, and she would like to meet you, sooner rather than later, I think."

"Brilliant!" Carol replied eagerly. "I've heard a lot about George Channing. Only, can it wait till five this afternoon? I have to attend an inquest."

"Will five this afternoon do you?" Neil asked George.

"Perfect," George replied cheerfully. "And if she could possibly lay her hands on Connie's case files, it would be very much appreciated."

"I'll do my best," Carol told him, having heard George's reply. "We were relocated to Paddington Green a few weeks ago, and this being where Connie Beauchamp was arrested and charge, tell Ms Channing it's a piece of cake. Any excuse for raiding DI Archer's desk." Putting his phone onto hands free, Neil told Carol to repeat what she'd just said.

"Well, as long as I can strike a deal with the prosecution," George told Carol with a laugh. "DI Archer will be in court all afternoon."

"Do you do that on a regular basis?" Carol asked her mildly. "Strike deals with the prosecution."

"It isn't the first in this particular case," George replied ruefully. "And it won't be the last."

"Come to Paddington Green police station around five," Carol told her. "And I'll give you as much time as you need."

When she returned to the Old Bailey, George made her way to the canteen, looking all around her for Brian Cantwell. Relieved to see Connie sitting with Karen and Ric, George walked over to a table where Coop was sitting with some of the other clerks.

"Coope, have you seen Brian Cantwell?"

"He's upstairs in the barristers' lounge," Coope told her. "Was your adjournment useful?"

"Is John getting you to spy for him again?" George asked her with a laugh.

"Oh, you never know," Coope replied with a smirk. "He might give me a pay rise if the results are good enough."

"You can tell him that yes, the adjournment was very useful, but that he won't see the results till tomorrow." Leaving Coope to it, George took a brief detour to speak to Connie.

"You look pleased with yourself," Ric told her in greeting.

"What you are both only just beginning to witness," Karen told them with a smirk. "Is the shark stalking its prey."

"And I will only pounce when I am good and ready," George replied, making Connie suck in a breath of barely concealed arousal. "But I first of all need to go and make a deal with the devil."

"With Cantwell?" Karen replied in disgust. "You must be joking."

"I'm not, mores' the pity."

"What do you want from him?" Connie asked quietly, having simply observed up until now.

"I want him to swap this afternoon's and tomorrow morning's witnesses about."

"Do I even want to know why?" Without stopping to consider the public setting she was in, George leant down to bring her face closer to Connie's, casually putting an arm around her shoulders as she did so.

"Because I'm waiting on some possible information on your arch nemesis, and Archer's being in court, would allow a friend of Neil Grayling's to if necessary search her desk to find it."

"How positively devious," Connie told her sotto voce.

"|The pair of you might not want to look quite so forbidden in this particular setting." Moving away from Connie at Karen's well chosen words, without making it look as though she had been caught doing something she shouldn't, George looked between Ric and Karen, not really knowing what to say. "You needn't look like that," Karen told her with a soft smile.

"Perhaps not," Said George with a shrug. "But I do know better than to do that here of all places." As she left to try and find Cantwell, Connie called after her.

"Do I need an escort to have a cigarette?"

"Yes, until court adjourns for the day, you do," George threw back over her shoulder, just hoping that no one had seen how close she'd been to her client.

When George entered the barristers' lounge upstairs, where barristers from all cases could mingle during the adjournments, she spied Brian Cantwell sitting in a corner drinking a coffee and eating a sandwich.

"Can I disturb your break?" George asked, standing on the other side of the coffee-table that was before him.

"By all means," He replied genially, folding up his newspaper and laying it down. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I need a favour," George told him, putting down her briefcase and perching on the edge of the chair next to him.

"Can I get you a coffee?" He asked, glancing towards the ornate pot on the sideboard.

"Yes please," She said, "White, no sugar." Relaxing back into the depths of the armchair for a moment, she watched him walk across to the sideboard and pour her coffee, adding a little milk and returning to place it on the table in front of her.

"So, this favour," He said, sitting back down, and gazing at her thoughtfully.

"Please could you swap round Will Curtis and DI Archer, so that you question Archer today and Will Curtis tomorrow morning?"

"And why on earth should I do that?" He asked, as though what she was proposing were utterly preposterous.

"For the simple reason that I'm asking you to," George replied, her eyes never leaving his, making him feel ever so slightly hypnotised.

"What's it worth?" he couldn't help but ask.

"That all depends," George told him with a smirk. "On what you would require to secure such a deal."

"No leaping out of your seat as though you'd been burnt, when I question your client on Friday? When all her colleagues will find out the things she did as a teenager."

"You bastard," George muttered quietly.

"Oh, every inch," Cantwell replied just as quietly, unable to prevent himself from grinning evilly at her.

"So," She said after a moment's pause. "You're going to try to win this case on the shattering of Connie's personal reputation rather than actual evidence?"

"Well, I've got to have something in reserve, if you keep dismissing my witnesses as though they were of no consequence."

"All right," George finally agreed. "I will throw Connie to the wolves, purely and simply because you'd have torn her to shreds whether I liked it or not. But believe me, I will be doing the same to all three of your witnesses, because all three of them put together are of even less consequence than when you put Sylvia Hollandby on the stand last year in the Barbara Mills case. So, if a war was what you wanted, you've well and truly got it." Standing up from her chair and picking up her handbag, George walked quickly out onto the balcony, closing the door behind her.

Lighting a cigarette, she stared miserably over at the building opposite, wondering if she really could get Connie off this ridiculous charge. She knew without the shadow of a doubt that Connie was innocent. After all, she wouldn't be sleeping with Connie if she didn't think so, but she wasn't remotely sure that the evidence from even the likes of Kay Scarpetta would achieve a verdict of not guilty. When Brian emerged through the door carrying her coffee cup, she glanced round at him, surprised at his thoughtfulness.

"You forgot this," He said, putting the cup down on the stone ledge in front of her.

"Thank you," She said, not meeting his eyes.

"You know why I have to tear her reputation apart, don't you," he asked her quietly.

"Of course I do," She replied dismally, trying desperately to suppress the tears that were rising to her eyes. "And I know I would do the same in your shoes. As you pointed out yesterday, I did do the same when she was on the opposite side last year."

"It's just part of the job, George," He told her candidly, briefly laying a hand on her shoulder. "It's a part of my job that you simply can't protect her from, no matter how hard you try. It might surprise you to know, that I don't think for one second that your client is actually guilty, but it is my job to try to prove by fair means or foul that she is. With the array of witnesses at your disposal, you have a more than excellent chance of achieving a not guilty verdict in the course of time. But until then, I must and will shatter every illusion that the jury and the rest of the court has about Connie Beauchamp. Even if she is found not guilty, she won't come out of this trial unscathed. You simply have to accept that." Giving her shoulder a quick squeeze, he walked back in through the balcony doors, leaving George to her less than comforting thoughts.

When court reconvened that afternoon, George watched Brian far more thoughtfully than usual. He had said that he didn't believe Connie to be guilty. That was one more person who believed her, even if he was working to prove otherwise. As he rose to his feet, he glanced over at George, wondering for the first time, whether or not she had a far higher stake in this case than she would like others to believe.

"Detective Inspector Archer," He began levelly. "What alerted the police to the fact that Angela Masters' death was suspicious?"

"It was her brother, James Masters who phoned us. The doctors couldn't explain to him why she had died, and the post-mortem that had taken place as a matter of course hadn't come to any conclusions either."

"Did you entertain the idea that he was simply angry and very naturally grief-stricken about his sister's death?"

"Of course," Archer replied candidly. "It isn't uncommon for grieving relatives to immediately want an answer as to why their loved one died, even if that ends up being the worst kind of answer."

"Please could you explain to the court precisely what you did on receiving his call?"

"We went to St Mary's hospital to conduct an enquiry. The side room where Angela Masters died had been kept sealed whilst the hospital conducted its own investigation, so lifting fingerprints and taking photographs was made even easier for us. Far too often with crimes that take place in a hospital setting, the crime scene is thoroughly washed down with bleach and disinfectant before we can get there, completely removing anything resembling trace evidence."

"And what did your enquiries show you?" Brian asked after a perfunctory straightening of his papers.

"It became obvious that this wasn't any ordinary post operative death, but the scene of a very cowardly murder, that of a doctor on an unsuspecting patient."

"Did this make you more or less determined to find the guilty party?"

"We give every suspicious death the same levels of due care and attention to detail, Sir," Archer replied, sounding as though her feathers had been more than a little ruffled.

"Yes, I'm sure," Brian responded glibly, almost making George smile. "So, what in fact made you, alight on the name of Mrs. Connie Beauchamp?"

"Angela Masters was Connie Beauchamp's patient, her murder took place on Connie Beauchamp's ward, and because it was Connie Beauchamp's fingerprint's that were found on a syringe, containing traces of potassium chloride. This is a particularly successful way to kill any patient, I am told, as it acts very quickly to stop the heart when given in a high enough dose."

"But surely something else must have made you look in Connie Beauchamp's direction? I'm sure the court would like to know that they aren't here simply because of a stray fingerprint."

"I wouldn't waste the court's time in such a manner, sir," Archer told him obsequiously, provoking a scornful laugh from George.

"Something funny, Ms Channing?" Jo couldn't help but ask, thoroughly seeing the joke herself.

"Just the thought that the police 'wouldn't ever waste the court's time', Your Honour."

"Quite," Jo replied, just for that moment sharing a brief enjoyment of irony with her.

"If I might continue, Your Honour?" Brian put in, knowing that Jo and George had shared a joke at Archer's expense.

"By all means, Mr. Cantwell."

"Inspector Archer," He said, returning to his slightly bemused witness. "What was the other occurrence that led you to arrest Mrs. Beauchamp?"

"We were given an anonymous tip off," Archer told the court, almost exulting in her moment of glory. "We received a phone call, on Friday the eighteenth of August of 2006, saying that the doctor who had killed Angela Masters, was a cardiothoracic consultant surgeon, Mrs. Connie Beauchamp."

"Did you ever think to question the authenticity of such a phone call?"

"We investigate criminals and deal with their activities on a daily basis, Mr. Cantwell, we don't exactly just take someone's word for it. Yes, we obviously investigated the authenticity of such a claim, though I am not at liberty to tell the court how we do this."

"Perhaps not," Brian told her honestly. "But I am sure that my learned friend will try to persuade you into doing so. How did Mrs. Beauchamp behave when you arrested her?"

"She couldn't at first believe that we were doing so, but she came quietly enough."

"And what about during her interview?"

"She was more than a little hostile. She was very disdainful, asserting again and again that she wasn't guilty, that she would in fact, never be guilty of such a crime. If I remember rightly, she said that as she had repaired the hole in Angela Masters' heart only two days before she had so unexpectedly died, why would she then go to all the bother of killing her, when it would have been so much easier to do so during the operation." George mentally groaned, knowing that such flippancy wouldn't go down well with the jury, or Jo for that matter.

"Did she demand a solicitor?"

"Not at first, no," Archer replied. "She didn't seem to think she needed one. She was very confident that we couldn't charge her because in her words, we simply didn't have the evidence."

"So why did you eventually charge Mrs. Beauchamp with the murder of Angela Masters?"

"Because her fingerprints were found on the syringe of the drug that killed Angela Masters, and because we were informed, possibly by one of her colleagues, that this is what Mrs. Beauchamp had done. She had murdered Angela masters, for what reason, we may never know."

"I have no further questions, Your Honour," Brian informed the court as he resumed his seat, knowing that in the questions to come, Detective Inspector Archer wouldn't know what had hit her.

When George rose to her feet, she couldn't help but feel that slight sexual frisson that always rose up in her when she really began the process of winning or losing a case. Achieving the dismissal of Harry Cunningham's evidence had been easier than she had expected, but with the event of DI Archer, George felt that the war had now truly begun.

"Detective Inspector Archer," She began, a look of utter distain on her face. "You are still a Detective Inspector, are you not?"

"Yes," Archer replied, unsure as to where this was going.

"When did you become a Detective Inspector?"

"At the beginning of 2002."

"And how many times have you applied for promotion?"

"Three," Archer replied dully, certain now that this upstart of a barrister was going to focus on hers, Archer's lack of success, rather than the evidence at hand.

"And do you have any idea why you haven't been promoted in what is now nearly five years?"

"I couldn't possibly comment," Archer responded acidly, shame tinting her cheeks with red.

"When Angela Masters was killed," George continued, almost as a complete non-sequitor. "What made you alight on my client as a likely suspect?"

"As I have already told the court," Archer replied, now on her way to being truly rattled. "Connie Beauchamp's fingerprints were on the syringe found at the scene, and we received an anonymous tip off."

"Who made this so-called anonymous tip off?"

"By the very nature of its being anonymous, I am unable to give the court an answer," Archer responded sarcastically.

"Are you seriously expecting the court to believe that you didn't make an attempt to trace this very convenient phone call?"

"Whether or not we did trace the call, I cannot give you the person's name, as that would be removing their anonymity."

"Are you refusing to give the court an answer?"

"I am saying that I cannot give the court an answer. Any police informant, especially when it concerns such a crime as this, deserves to remain anonymous."

"Leaving this anomaly aside for the moment," George continued, hardly giving the witness chance to take a breath. "At the beginning of 2003, you were investigating the assisted suicide of one Terry Fox, who was at the time of his death, married to Sr. Catherine Fox, who worked on Keller ward of St. Mary's Hospital. What made you decide to raise this crime to murder?"

"At the time," Archer replied, wondering just where this barrister had acquired all this information. "I felt that the circumstances qualified as murder, rather than assisted suicide."

"Wasn't it in fact, a fairly transparent attempt to secure your next promotion?"

"Certainly not," Archer said defiantly, though the truth of George's words had obviously hit home.

But isn't it true to say, that the thought of your possible promotion, was what made you seek to convict Catherine fox at any price?"

"No!" Archer tried to insist. "She was guilty!"

"But the court didn't convict her, did they? The jury in that trial didn't believe she was guilty of murder for an instant, something I've no doubt you ground your teeth over for months afterwards."

"Let us leave that eventual verdict of not guilty to one side," George continued, "And focus on the events of nearly a year later, and the investigation into several deaths by insulin overdose, found to be the work of Staff Nurse Kelly York. How do you respond to the allegation, that as a result of your failure the year before to have Sr. Fox convicted of murder, you were on that occasion, pushing to convict the same woman of the deaths of several patients?"

"That is utterly ridiculous," Archer stormed, "I was simply doing my job!"

"If we return to the death of Angela Masters," George continued, making Archer feel as though her head was being used in a tennis match. "Did you see this as an opportunity for some payback, to the hospital that had solved the Kelly York crimes for you?"

"Your honour, I must protest," Cantwell said, rising swiftly to his feet, thinking that George had had her own way for quite long enough.

"Sit down, Mr. Cantwell," Jo told him. "It is a perfectly valid question."

"I investigated Angela Masters' death, with the same level of dedication that I would accord any other crime of this nature." Archer's words sounded as though she was herself, desperately trying to believe them.

"But your reliance on a supposedly anonymous informant, to arrest and try my client, is rather desperate, is it not?"

"Ms Channing, please don't lead the witness," Jo put in, but knowing that she would have said something very similar herself.

"Having been a Detective Inspector for five years," George continued, almost ignoring JO completely. "Isn't it a little shaming, to have no possibility of a promotion in sight? Wouldn't it be fair to say, that you would do practically anything, to take that step up to Detective Chief Inspector?"

"I do my job to the best of my ability," Archer insisted, visible tears now having risen to her eyes. "I can do no more than that."

"Would the term, making the evidence fit the crime, be applicable in your conduct of my client's arrest?"

"I conducted Connie Beauchamp's interview in the utmost professional manner."

"I only have one final question for you," George told her, seeing the relief in Archer's face and knowing she was going to make maximum use of it. "If you achieve the conviction of a high-flying surgeon, of the murder of one of her patients, would this secure your elevation to Detective Chief Inspector?"

"I don't know," Archer replied, sounding more pathetic by the minute. "I simply don't know."

"No further questions, Your Honour," George said quietly, returning to the silks' bench and resuming her seat, knowing that she had thoroughly broken Archer's strategy, leaving it bare for all to see.


	89. Chapter 89

**Part Eighty-Nine**

George couldn't resist a triumphant smirk to remain on her face as she left the court even though a little voice of reason at the back of her head bade her remember that Brian Cantwell would be sure to attempt to even the score and more. Nevertheless, she couldn't resist the temporary indulgence and, besides, since when did fighting for justice mean that she should be forever dour and earnest. That had never been her style throughout her life.

Upstairs in the balcony, two very different reactions framed themselves as George's caustic cross examination of DI Archer had unreeled itself. Karen had seen George in action plenty of times and she was fascinated to observe the fair haired beauty's sharp verbal focus and how she shifted her point of attack around all points of the spectrum and successfully dazzled and confused the policewoman's clumsy clichés. It was George's body language that fascinated her and caused her to watch with bated breath.

Ric had been moved by George's character defence of Connie in her opening address and witnessed the short and sharp dust-up with Dr. Harry Cunningham but this was a revelation, an experience that defied verbalisation but was there to be absorbed as a whole. As George's cross examination continued, he couldn't help stealing glances at Connie in the dock. While she remained necessarily impassive, Ric knew Connie well enough to comprehend her capacity for steely self discipline to endure the trial, minute by minute and day by day. Past echoes of the Connie Beauchamp in the operating theatre resonated in the background of George's questioning of D I Archer and it forcibly struck him how similar the two women were, how suited they were for each other and how curious it was that this didn't interfere with his love for Connie in the slightest. Right now, if Connie had a saviour, that person was George without a doubt and the thought made him happy.

"Come on, Ric," Karen interjected through the fog of Ric's ruminations."The pub across the road will be jam packed if we hang around. Admiring George's beauty isn't perhaps the smartest move right now."

Ric grinned widely in appreciation at Karen's subtle joke. These were the first words they'd shared in a while as they'd maintained a companionable silence throughout this part of the trial to date. Suddenly, Ric realised that it was his job to update Zubin and Tricia as to the progress of the trial as St Mary's had placed limits on how many of their valuable staff could be spared so his faultlessly sharp memory ran through the trial sequence despite the handicap of part of his mind having been occupied elsewhere.

"If we skip out the back and down the staircase, we'll catch up with Connie and George. Take it from me, I know," Karen urged forcefully.

Being fleet of foot, they descended the last steps of the curving staircase just when George and Connie had escaped the crush of people just outside the courtroom. DI Archer wasn't amongst the crowd as she'd been the first to shoot off, go back to the police station and not say a word to her colleagues about her humiliating experiences.

"That last witness helped put you ahead of the game, George," Karen said with a wide grin on her face which George graciously acknowledged, coming from a woman whose own strength she knew from a position of intimacy.

"I suppose this is a break from your humdrum life as a prison governor," she joked back, keeping things light as she could feel Connie Beauchamp releasing her tension in escaping to the fresh air outside. Both women shared a reluctance to celebrate prematurely. While Ric had hurried down the staircase, it gave him the opportunity to complete his mental task so he was right here again in the present tense.

"You'd make a very good poker player. Take it from me, I know the signs," Ric ventured with his wide grin. George spotted immediately that there was something that he wanted to tell her privately so she gestured to him to move to one side while Karen chatted awhile with Connie.

"There's one card I'm really glad you didn't play and that's in keeping quiet about me nearly sleeping with Kelly York," Ric said quietly, dropping his suave guard in place of a touching display of embarrassment.

"Believe me Ric, I'd never tell a living soul what you'd said to me about her. The fact that it wouldn't serve an earthly purpose is only a tenth of the reason why that stays under wraps. Besides, that part of the trial was comparatively easy. The biggest test is still to come when I cross swords with Will Curtis. That will be make or break time."

Ric could tell that halfway through George's reply, she was already starting to reach forward into the future even as she turned to walk back and meet the others. She was as focussed on the trial as he would be in planning out a complicated operation.

"If you'll excuse me, I had better pop in to Larkhall. I know Nikki's been holding the fort while I'm away but there's only so much she can do," Karen said to the others. They knew that Karen had these extra sensory feelers for what might be happening on her watch when she wasn't there and respected her actions. They watched her heels clicking away on the pavement and fading into the distance as she made her way to her car.

"Do you want me to cook you some dinner?" Ric asked Connie quietly. Her response was more acquiescence than agreement as Ric knew that she wanted her destiny being bequeathed into capable, trusted hands since she couldn't control it herself. Her brief smile in response said thanks and that felt good enough to Ric.

The conversation over a candlelit dinner was desultory, about nothing in particular and the soft round gentle glow was not so much to establish a romantic atmosphere but one that was reassuring. That much, both of them understood. Most of all, Connie was grateful for Ric's presence as she had had way too much time to reflect on her situation. At her most depressed when no one was around, she was worried lest dark thoughts overtake her and take shape from her unconscious and she deliberately fended them off. At least she thought ruefully to herself, they took the place of the lurking fear that this story might not end up happily after.

"You know, I'd heard Zubin talk about what it was like taking part in a court hearing and even he couldn't put over what an extraordinary theatre it is. The world can be changed by a well turned phrase such as the way George kept tripping up DI Archer. To look at the woman in her own environment, she might appear competent and knowledgeable."

"Careful Ric," Connie advised in a slow and contemplative fashion, reining in Ric's understandable enthusiasm. "Yes, it does work out like a poker game as you said to George earlier on but there are human lives at stake."

"So what's your take on what happened today, not mine and not Karen's?" Ric asked softly. Any little thing he could do to help empower Connie was his to do, something that seemed absurd by comparison with the Connie Beauchamp he had known, cardiothoracic surgeon and mistress of all she surveyed.

"What struck me most is how bizarre it felt to see George doing to someone else what she did to me the year before when I was a witness. At that time, I'd come fresh from St Mary's having triumphantly completed a major operation, only to find George making me look like a complete whore in open court and then gently springing me into an admission of fallibility that no one else had done before. George employed similar tactics to make a fool of a policewoman whose ambition outran her intelligence by a mile and I'm glad she did it. It's strange how times change."

Ric was thankful that Connie was staring into the candlelight and wasn't looking at him. He was infinitely glad that nature favoured him in concealing his blushes from the outside world but he didn't trust that Connie would overlook anything as she knew him so well.

Some time after they'd eaten, Ric decided to bite the bullet to tell Connie what had been on his mind despite the small talk.

"Connie, there's something I've been meaning to tell you."

"Good," Connie said with something of her old spirit of command as she surveyed him through lowered lids. "I was wondering when you were going to come out with whatever there is on your mind."

"I'm well aware that later this week I will learn a lot about you that you definitely wouldn't want anyone to know. I just wish you could just open up and tell me."

This came as a total shock to Connie so that her arm was frozen in position as it held her glass of wine she'd just sipped. Knowing what Ric did know about her eliminated a great swathe of possibilities and it could only relate to an area of her past life that she'd kept hermetically sealed from the world. It instantly flashed through her mind that this could only have emanated from George who might know far more than she thought she did. She knocked back the last of her wine and placed the glass on the table before words escaped her mouth with no premeditation.

"There are very few people in this world that I'd ever give direct answers about my life to, and you're one of them. This time I make an exception. There's something I need to ask George before anything else and even then, I'm not sure I'll tell you."

Connie rose up from her seat like a rocketing pheasant and shot through the front door in an obviously fairly frantic frame of mind. As the door slammed, Ric shook his head ruefully and the same refrain went round and round in his head. Oh boy, did I handle that one really badly. After living with four wives, surely I should have figured out how to handle delicate situations. Perhaps I should have kept my big mouth shut and said nothing. He finished his glass of wine and lay down in his armchair in an atmosphere of dead silence.

Ric wasn't the only person finding that Connie's identity was in danger of going seriously out of focus. John was finding the very same problem as he was attempting to write his statement about the day he spent shadowing Connie Beauchamp. He was at home with an A4 writing pad and a number of screwed up sheets of paper in his waste bin testified to failed attempts. His angle-poise lamp cast harsh illumination on his desk, leaving the rest of the room in relative darkness. Finally, he got up with a groan of despair and started pacing round the room. He guessed that inspiration would come to him easier if he paced around.

The trouble was that he hadn't sufficiently captured the image of Connie Beauchamp cardiothoracic surgeon at St Mary's in his mind and the image of Connie Beauchamp, suspected murderer on trial was too indelibly imprinted, especially as two days of seeing her in the dock was becoming too dominant. He lay down on his settee and he sought to remember what Connie said that day as he led in to the task in hand. When he'd done that, he was confronted with a series of words which could be used to describe Connie Beauchamp and they slid restlessly through his hands like a pack of cards. Words like "firm , "bossy", "insisting on the highest possible standards","not suffering fools gladly","intolerant" and "decisive" might all easily describe this enigmatic woman. It all depended on your point of view and how you got on with her. Whatever he wrote was coloured by his warm feelings for her that a colder temperament might view in a completely different light. Finally, he reached for his laptop, switched it on and tapped away in a feverish manner.

"It isn't impossible to over appreciate how hospital operations hang on a razor's edge between success and disaster, that hospital teams operate under. In other fields of work, words can be unsaid but the tiniest wrong nick of the knife can fatally end the life of the patient and can't be undone. It means that operating staff require the ability to organise from intensive knowledge of their craft and throw their game plan away when the unexpected happens and switch plans in a way that looks like improvising but isn't. The operations run on concentrated adrenaline which must be focussed to the demands of the situation. In turn,what is critical is whether the operation is harnessed to the ego of the master practitioner's needs or whether that practitioner's necessary ego is devoted to the higher goal of saving lives. In my opinion, Mrs Beauchamp falls into the second category.

"Mrs Beauchamp's method of dealing with her staff is to set rightfully daunting standards in expecting everyone to do about four things at once and is right to do so as the unexpected can and will happen. For example, she adapted the operation on injuries to the stomach and chest of a woman in her early thirties to incorporate a hitherto unsuspected pregnancy when this was pointed out to her and she detailed Dr Owen Davies, an obstetrician to come in which he did at short notice and she performed a two handed operation with him along with the existing medical team. Obviously, conflicts can arise under such tension as to what is the right form of treatment but as Mrs Beauchamp said when a dispute arose as to whether she or the obstetrician should tell the woman of her miscarriage. "It sounds crazy, I know, but if we didn't care, we wouldn't shout at each other."

While it might be argued that as a layman I might be easily impressed by a display of showmanship, the contrary might be equally argued that Mrs Beauchamp has the unobtrusive talent to make a finely crafted operation look easy as she doesn't make mistakes. Her observations on her patient's medical condition and her plan on how to conduct the operation was precise and meticulous.

It is apparent to me that written into her mental DNA that the very best of what she is capable of is routinely offered to any patient whatever the circumstances. As she is dependent on others for preliminary examination on admission, she will be highly critical of a subordinate's lax standards only because it compromises the patient under her care(for example when Mr Curtis overlooked a small tear in the patient's right lung in the accident and emergency department).

In short, Mrs Beauchamp's skill in theatre, relationship with her colleagues, professional attitude towards her patients contributes so much to society by what she does on a daily basis and is an inspiration to those who are prepared to learn from her."

After John's furious typing had come to an end, he hastily saved the document with a name and printed it out. This was a reasonable stab at what he wanted to do and he knew that the document was wide open to various interpretations. He stood up, stretched himself to ease his backache and printed it out. He could pencil in any fine alterations but he was happy that he had got to the sense of what he wanted to say. He helped himself to a stiff drink and readied himself for bed and the next day's trial.


	90. Chapter 90

A/N: This is a jointly written scene from both myself and Richard. The songs referred to are Angel and The Godfather Theme, from the Katherine Jenkins album Believe.

Part Ninety

As George departed off her normal beaten track to her appointment with Carol Jordan at Paddington Green Police Station, she became aware of the change in scenery. The world of criminal courts was of ornate buildings with that sense of luxury of expense which made it feel civilized. her journey took her through more utilitarian office buildings and slightly seedy Victorian terraces. and finally led her along the Edgeware Road and finally to a stark square sided white typical nineteen sixties office block with a few token trees around the car park. George turned into the car park, past the stony faced security man who gestured to her car park space. With an excess of confidence, she made for the entrance to the buildings. As she expected, she faced a phalanx of security at the check in desk and the man behind the desk glanced down at the guest list and picked up the phone.

"DCI Jordan will come down and see you. You can wait in the foyer till she comes."

As she sat on the none too well padded bench, George restrained her temptation to click her fingers in her impatience. Her immediate purpose was to discover who informed on Connie but she knew that answers had the habit of throwing up further questions. She sensed that new possibilities were out there waiting to be discovered. Finally, after five minutes or so which felt like an hour or so, one of the lifts silently opened and a slim fair haired woman walked purposefully in her direction.

"You must be George Channing. I suspect that you will be equally pleased to see me as I am to see you. I'll show you the way," Carol said, shaking hands with George. The barrister was favourably impressed with this newcomer as she spoke in her slow, cool fashion. Carol Jordan was of medium height, slim built, wearing a dark jacket and trousers. Her fine features, fresh complexion, brown eyes that looked George straight in the eye was a little reminiscent of Nikki, except for her straight blond shoulder length hair parted to one side and falling in a fringe onto her forehead. She carried an official file under her arm. They made their way up in the lift, turned left to face a long narrow corridor that seemed to stretch for miles.

"I thought I'd introduce you to a colleague of mine, Dr Tony Hill who lectures at the university and works closely with us as a criminal profiler. I'll warn you in advance that he is an enthusiast in his own field and a little eccentric. He'd be the first to say that he lacks the social graces. He is invaluable in pinpointing the criminal from his modus operandi and he has shortened investigations where I've received the official credit. Why he wasn't put onto this case from the outset, God only knows."

"I bow to your judgement and will view your friend with an open mind," George replied in cordial tones. Her experience of John Deed's quirks over the years should stand her in good stead, she thought. George made an immediate favourable impression on Carol. She'd heard of her from hostile gossip from the likes of a disgruntled D I Sullivan that the woman was a ball breaker and she'd always reserved her own judgement. She immediately pegged this barrister as gracious and expansive though certainly not someone to cross.

Carol pushed open the far door to the MIT room. To George's fresh eyes, it was long for its size, with lines of desks down either side. Each desk had its own computer, phone and files jumbled on the far side. Men and women of uniform appearance were either on the phone or studying evidence intently. White boards with coloured felt-writer scrawlings and photographs announced the state of play on each case. Right at the end was Carol's office, obscured by blinds to ensure her own privacy while enabling her to look out on her team. As they entered the door, George's eye was struck by a thin man in a swivel seat, arched back with his hands clasped behind his head and elbows sticking out sideways.

"Tony, this is George Channing, the barrister who I've told you about," Carol said in easy tones. Tony stayed where he was for a second, seemed to unroll himself with india rubber movements, stood up and shook her hand with an obvious look of surprise on his face.

"Short for Georgia. It's a family contraction that has stayed with me," George explained politely."Carol has told me a little about your work."

Tony Hill's gaze flicked over George in a way that was his normal way of sizing up people. He immediately took over Carol's office in pulling up two swivel chairs in a rough circle in his attempt to be helpful. Carol looked a little apologetic but George looked on with interest. They obviously had a well developed partnership, a union of opposites.

"I don't suppose you've noticed me before. I've been watching the trial from the start. My professional inquisitiveness was roused when I first heard of it," Tony Hill said in short clipped phrases. "The best way of explaining my work is to set out a few possible ideas as to who the real killer is. He or she might be motivated by rage against the world that's betrayed me, belittled me, wronged me..He wants to ease their pain. the sick and vulnerable need me, want me to help them. They're my people and no one else's. He-or she - is secretive, controlled, fastidious and this is unusual. Take the average killer, it's I hate you, knife, stab, kill."

George was astonished. She'd met no one like him before. This manic creature's spidery limbs moved in a contorted fashion as did his beaky face as acted out the killer. He had to be the biggest madman ever or the greatest genius in his field. He made John Deed seem staid and conventional by comparison but somehow not diminished, just different in his own way. Nevertheless, an idea popped into her mind, just itching to be spoken.

"The job you do must make a difference. after all, a bricklayer killing his enemy isn't going to use a surgeon's scalpel," she said in deliberately self-assured tones.

"Or perhaps, different occupations attract different personality types, even the most marginal kind," countered Tony in his rapid fire style.

"That may be part of it. Every barrister or judge I've known is disputatious to some degree, myself included," smiled George winningly, neatly stealing the man's argument from under his feet.

"But that supposes the world is peopled by sane people who don't club, maim or poison. Not my experience," retorted Tony, feeling uncomfortable with this woman's swift intelligence but trying not to show it.

"Which is where you come in," countered George smoothly.

"Smart woman," Tony said in quieter, more reflective tones."You're the first person I've ever come across who doesn't violently disagree with me."

"This argument is all very well Tony," Carol stepped in in her reasonable, unruffled tones but you and I know that George will need more than this. It might have escaped your notice but she's well into the trial and time isn't on her side." Carol's intervention further impressed George as being alert and businesslike with none of the macho style normally associated with the Met. "Let's look at Mrs Beauchamp's witness statement when she was first arrested."

As the three of them studied the document, it aroused a sense of tedium in both George and Tony. What took George's attention was the internal report of the arrest.

"This is useless. All it is is I say you did it. she says she didn't. The policeman has never said why she's in the frame. He might as well have accosted some random person in the hospital because he looked suspicious. As for the internal report, it might have been written by a politician. It's shifty and evasive. It tells me nothing, especially the anonymous phone call," Tony said, throwing his hands into the air in despair. Carol felt called for to make an explanation of where she fitted into the investigation.

"In case you're wondering, my section was only relocated here a few weeks ago so I had no hand in the investigation. This is between the three of us as I've done some digging around. The anonymous phone call was traced to Will Curtis's mobile."

A long ominous silence hung upon the air. The same suspicion burnt brightly in each other's minds and the frustrating feeling that they hadn't got to the bottom of this case.

"I'll try something if you can spare me a white board. You only get the right answers if you ask the right questions. This trial lies between Connie Beauchamp and Will Curtis, correct? " Tony answered with lightning speed. George opted to trust her instincts, go with the flow and see what unfolded.

"Sure," Carol answered in her unflappable tones.

Tony led the way out of the office and Carol quietly asked Paula, a middle aged woman with shortish blond hair if anyone was planning on using the one vacant board next to the door of her office. She gave Carol a felt-writer before Tony had the chance to steal the nearest one to hand from the way his eyes were flicking over the desks. George was intrigued to see how the others treated Tony's presence as in the natural order of events.

"What I'm doing," Tony explained," is setting out questions against Connie and Will," is asking the questions in column one. Column two is the answers for Connie and column three is the answers for Will. If you have answers already, call them out. If you don't know, say nothing. I warn you in advance that there will be a lot of 'don't knows.' If that's how you feel, be honest and they can be investigated later. Are you ready?" His lecturing, demonstrating manner both reminded George of a mad scientist at work and also of a natural lecturer who commanded attention.

"High birth order?"

"Connie's an only child but I don't know about Will.

"Father's work stable?" George remained silent.

"Absent father?" George's mouth remained tight shut.

"Parental discipline perceived as inconsistent?" By now, George was starting to feel in uncharted waters as, for all her intimate experience of Connie, she had never known her talk of her father. As for Will, he was a closed book.

" Higher than average IQ?" rapped out Tony in his monotone voice. With a feeling of relief George answered "Definitely yes for Connie and also yes for Will. Connie Beauchamp advanced very quickly up the promotion ladder because of her talent and ambition. I understand that Will Curtis became a registrar after he had spent some time in the army as a surgeon and was then made Connie's registrar," George explained helpfully.

"Skilled occupation?" "Both are surgeons obviously," Carol said calmly..

"Socially adept?" "Let me think for a moment," George said quickly and Tony faced her, felt-writer at his side. "Will, or Lord Curtis-Harding to give him his proper title, comes from a public school and all that goes with the territory. Connie Beauchamp doesn't suffer fools gladly but has had to learn skills to operate in hospital politics and motivate those she works with," George explained, trying to be objective. Tony scrawled an accurate summary on the board.

"Living with Partner?" "Will is married and Connie is married but separated," George said promptly.

"Children?" "He has two children but Connie," George started to say and stopped before Tony's intense gaze. "I know that Connie had a baby at sixteen but I don't know what happened to it?" Carol saw George's downward gaze which didn't want Tony to pry further and surprisingly he didn't.

"Controlled mood under pressure?" "I should say that Connie is but I don't know enough about Will," George said carefully..

"Previous use of alcohol and/or drugs?" "I don't know about Will either way but I understand that Connie received a caution for the possession of cannabis when she was sixteen."

"Easy access to environment of crime scene?" "That's easy," George said in relieved tones getting back to solid impersonal matters. "The crime happened on the ward where they both work."

"Unsuspicious demeanour?" "Definitely yes as both are trusted to save people's lives every day."

"Mental illness in the immediate family?" "Alcohol or drugs problem in immediate family?" "Parents with criminal record?" Tony questioned relentlessly as his scrawlings reached further down the board leaving a patchwork response. As each question received a silent response, George began to feel that the potential for understanding the case started to rise above her when, a short time before, she was certain of everything..

"Has either suffered from parental abuse?" Tony spotted George looking uncomfortably silent so he paused rather than scrawl the next no.

"I don't know anything about Will but I suspect it may have happened in Connie's case." George said hesitantly. As Carol looked on, she was intrigued to see how Tony never followed up with his stock counter-question,"What makes you so sure?" He received each answer and, for reasons of his own, accepted it and moved on.

"Sexually dysfunctional?" "I can definitely say in Connie's case that it is a definite no," George said with total confidence.

The manner of this response prompted Carol to draw the conclusion that had been building up in her mind from the way that George had been speaking of her all this time. However, she knew well enough that there is a right time and way of saying things.

"I won't ask how you know that," she said in gentle tones. However, this made George go slightly pale at the implication as this was now public knowledge with two official bodies. "I understand that Will definitely had a sexual obsession with Connie when she first began working at St. Mary's," she continued in a more even tone of voice.

"Hmm, interesting," observed Tony non-committally. "Has either been unfaithful to their spouse?"

"This has been a fairly regular situation for Connie. Will wanted to be unfaithful with Connie and almost was," George said with surprising bluntness.

"Lack of emotional warmth from parents?" continued Tony, getting towards the bottom of the board.

"I don't know about Will but Connie's parents don't appear to be any longer in her life when you'd think that they would be proud of her achievements over the years," George said in judicial tones. Tony marked this entry with yes and a question mark. "Hedging my bets," Tony said with a mischievous grin..

"Witnessed physically or sexually stressful situation as a child?" Again George indicated a big unknown not only in Will's case but Connie's as well..

"Early sexual experience as an adolescent?"

"I don't know anything about Will, but I know that Connie did get a caution for soliciting when she was sixteen," George stated. Carol Jordan couldn't help but respect George for coming out with answers for Connie regardless of how good or bad it looked. It would have been so easy, so tempting, for her to give the impression that Connie was a plaster saint. Ironically, her suspicions as to the barrister's involvement with her client made her all the more credible. If there were ever any doubts as to which sides she should choose, they were definitely set at rest..

"My final question is the big one, motive?" asked Tony with a touch of drama as he got to the final bit of space on the board. At last George's body posture relaxed as some of the previous questions had put visible pressure on her.

"I can't see anything obvious for Connie , but I am sure that, right from the beginning Will wanted Connie out of her job, and himself in her place," George said with satisfaction.

All three of them stood back from the board and it was only then that they were aware that they'd drawn an interested crowd around them. The three of them were exhilarated, especially George as she felt that this detached perspective of the case amongst people she'd only just got to know firmed up her perspective on the case.

"So where do we go from here Tony?" George asked in respectful tones.

"I want to be able to flesh out more of the unknowns. This case has got me interested," Tony replied, his imagination on fire to pursue this case with relentless fanaticism.

"I don't want to push Connie for answers she doesn't want to give," George said as she stepped back a little way of the purity of information finding as she felt Connie's spirit around her.

"Looking at the case as a policewoman, I'd say that if we are going purely on motive, George's client certainly isn't guilty, but that having more of the unknowns answered might help us to be sure to catch the real perpetrator," Carol answered in gentle tones, revealing a little more of her warmth of personality. George smiled kindly at this intervention as this woman was mercifully free of the macho attitudes associated with the Met.

"Does this help you when Will Curtis goes on the stand even if we don't have the time to give you further answers?" Tony asked in concerned tones.

"It certainly does," George answered, beaming all over her face with great satisfaction, a flood of warm emotions coursing through her system. "I could do with a coffee."

"You're lucky. Normally, I can't think without coffee," Tony said dryly.

The two women laughed affectionately at him. George could see why Carol was so obviously fond of him.

Much later that evening, Connie never knew just how she managed to drive over to George's; with Ric's question and all the possibilities it unleashed whizzing round and round in her head. Just how much did George know? Why hadn't she said anything? If George did know far more about Connie's past, which Connie was now realising she must do, why hadn't she told her? Connie felt at once hurt and angry, but deep down she knew that this was entirely her own fault. Right from the beginning and throughout the last few months, Connie had only ever told George the absolute minimum, in fear that George would come to loathe and despise her. But now she had no choice, she simply had to find out if George already knew about the fiasco of Connie's baby, and if she did, just how long she had known.

When Connie arrived, she got out of her car just as Charlie was leaving through the front door.

"Hi," Charlie said, giving Connie a brief smile. "Mum's singing to Katherine Jenkins."

"Is she?" Connie asked, smiling at the beautiful sound she could hear. "Can you let me in without telling her. That way I can go on listening. She'll stop as soon as she knows I'm here." The look on Connie's face was so conspiratorial, that Charlie found herself grinning.

"Sure," She said, holding the door open for Connie and carefully shutting it after her when she left. Connie simply stood for a while in the hall, listening to the combined tones of George's incredible voice together with the CD she had bought George for Christmas. Quietly Connie moved towards the door to the lounge, standing in the doorway, though just where George hopefully wouldn't see her.

"So tired of the straight line, and everywhere you turn,

There's vultures and thieves at your back.

The storm keeps on twisting, you keep on building the line,

That you make up for all that you lack."

As the words of the song flowed over her, Connie might almost have believed they were being said to her personally. She certainly did have vultures at her back at the moment, both in court and out of it, and yes, she was tired of the straight line she had been living all these years. Perhaps George represented the deviating from that straight line. She smiled at her own pun, but knowing at the same time that George's lust, affection, Connie refused to entertain the word love, showed her that making love could be far more sensuous, far more passionate than she had thought for many a long year.

"In the arms of an angel, fly away from here,

From this dark, cold, hotel room,

And the endlessness that you fear.

You were pulled from the wreckage, of your silent reverie.

You're in the arms of an angel,

May you find some comfort there."

It was with these words that Connie's tears began to flow. She was utterly silent as she cried, allowing George's voice to wash over her. Was she really in the arms of an angel, sometimes she certainly thought so. But could this particular angel get her out of the wreckage that she was currently in? George was the one who had always believed in her, believed in her so clearly that she had personally taken up the challenge of trying to secure Connie's acquittal. Ric and Tom and the others were all doing their utmost to support her, but it was George who had worked tirelessly for months, and who was now pushing herself to the absolute limit to do everything in her power, and perhaps some things not within her remit, to set Connie free.

She'd sat down at the bottom of the stairs as she listened to George, the sheer surge of power coming from George's voice almost overwhelming her. She had the CD playing, not unbearably loud but relatively so. She was sitting at the piano, clearly playing along with the music, sight reading from a book she had propped open in front of her on the piano's music rack. Quite how George could read, sing and play all at once was a mystery to Connie. But when George moved onto the theme from The Godfather, she stopped playing the piano and simply read from the book. It became clear why she'd done this when she began singing in Italian. As talented as George might be, she was obviously still learning this song. But to hear the beautifully modulated, Italian cadences flowing from George as though she'd been speaking the language all her life, made the tension gradually seep out of Connie, gently drawing away the fear she had felt about confronting the issue of her baby. Whether George did or didn't know about it by now, it was certainly time she did.

When this particular song had finished, George spoke.

"Will that do you for tonight?" Connie stood up from her place on the stairs in surprise.

"How did you know I was here?"

"You're the only woman I know who wears that perfume," George told her, turning round on the piano stool to face her.

"That was beautiful," Connie told her, moving into the lounge. "I didn't know you could read Italian."

"For my sins," George told her. "It was French and either Italian or German when I was at school. Nowadays, they're all learning Chinese and Arabic."

"I suppose someone has to," Connie replied philosophically, moving to stand in front of the crackling fire, warming her hands at this most welcoming of blazes.

"Are you all right?" George asked, because she could see that Connie had obviously been crying.

"There's, erm, there's something I think we need to talk about," Connie told her, looking slightly hunched, as though she was afraid of what she had to say.

"Ah," Was all George said, thinking that she might just know what was coming. As they joined each other on the sofa, in the quiet left in the wake of the CD, Connie wondered why George had kept her knowledge of Connie's baby quiet all this time.

"I'm listening," George said quietly, after lighting them both a cigarette.

"Am I right in thinking that you know about my baby?" Connie asked her straight out. "The one I had when I was sixteen?"

"Yes," George replied softly, keeping her own expression as undemanding as possible.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Connie asked, feeling more than a little betrayed.

"Because I thought it was important for you to tell me yourself," George told her. "I didn't want to threaten the trust you had in me as a barrister, never mind anything else."

"How long have you known?"

"The night I smoked a joint with you. Dr. Waugh saw your previous placental scar when he did your twelve week scan, and eventually decided to draw it to Karen's notice, because he knew I was working on your case, and I'm very glad he did. It won't be the first time that Brian Cantwell has gone looking for medical records that he isn't supposed to be able to get his hands on." Connie winced when she heard this. "Why couldn't you tell me?" George asked after a moment's silence.

"Isn't that a bit bloody obvious?" Connie demanded bitterly. "I'm not exactly proud of why she died."

"Tell me," George prompted gently.

"Why? Are you telling me you didn't manage to find that out as well?" Connie rebounded caustically. Reaching out, George took her hand.

"Not as yet, no, and I would far rather you tell me than have to wait for Yvonne Atkins to find the right archived document."

"So that's who does your less than legal snooping for you," Connie said with a sardonic smile.

"She's been useful on numerous occasions," George replied with a shrug. Looking away from George towards the flickering flames of the open fire, Connie said,

"My daughter was withdrawing from drugs when she was born at twenty-nine weeks, and she died a few hours later, and it's something I will never, ever forgive myself for. No matter what was going on with me at the time, I didn't have to inflict it on her, but I did." George squeezed Connie's hand, at a complete loss as to what to say. Eventually, George asked,

"What made you suddenly decide to tell me?"

"Ric asked me to try being honest with him, and it occurred to me that you might know far more about my past than I thought you did. I'm sorry, for not telling you before this."

"Don't forget," George reminded her. "That there is still a lot you don't know about me, and Charlie, especially about Charlie. So I'm not going to be cross with you for keeping something like that from me, but I can almost guarantee that Brian Cantwell will have found out about it somehow, so be prepared to be questioned about it on Friday."

"Does he seriously think I did this?" Connie asked, wanting to change the subject.

"No, as it happens," George told her with a wry smile. "But as he said to me at lunchtime, it is his job to prove that you did."

"What a complete bastard," Connie said in total disgust.

"Utterly," George agreed with her. "But a good barrister is at times, nothing less."

"Can I stay?" Connie asked a little while later.

"Of course you can," George told her, thinking that they were only two days into Connie's trial, and that already she didn't entirely trust Connie to be alone.

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